September is here.
The summer suitcases are unpacked and stowed emptily awaiting the next chance for adventure and travel. The school bags stand blackly waiting by the front door, ready with new pens and files, and pads of paper waiting to be filled. The plumbs are falling, scattering the mossy lawn with purple pods and blackberries are the jewels on my hedgerow dog walks.
I always feel sad at the passing of summer, the long days where there seems to be double the time, twice the life to be lived between waking and sleep. I will miss the bright days, the warm nights, the bare feet and the ease and luxury of having free time.
There is a tang in the air, the leaves are falling, the river is bright and cold, the air clear, the swallows still swooping but gathering sojourn to warmer climes.
I usually dread the contracting of light which forces us all inwards, all that energy for the outside contained within four walls, bouncing and fizzing with nowhere to go. The clock watching starts, the places to be, the schedules to keep the dogs walks no longer in simple flip-flops but wrapped up against the wind and the rain.
But this year I feel ready for autumn, ready for the winter reading nights with piles of books amassed through the active summer where the grass calls louder than the page. My fingers are aching for crochet hooks and wool to weave the blanket of this year’s warmth. The cellar is full of last year’s wood and the fire lies expectantly clean.
There is an ending in the passing of August, a gathering in of energy, a slowing down and a turning within. For spring and summer draw me outward and autumn and winter pull me within.
I am grateful for the seasons and all they allow me to be, vigorous energy replacing snoozing sleeps and curiosity about who will emerge next spring.