The fall is suddenly upon us, and it is indescribably wonderful. I’ve felt this exact autumn in my bones most of my forty-one years and I could recognize it with only a handful of my senses. I remember the last ninety-plus degree day, just a short few weeks ago, and then suddenly the temperature dropped. It is still warm enough, with rich rains, sometimes violent ones. My husband kept watering our sparse tomato plants right up until last week, although I told him there was not enough summer warmth left to coax the green fruits into ripeness.
I had a difficult time during my last medical procedure; Ralph suffered while watching me vomit, and about forty eight ours of relatively intense discomfort. Any physical difficulties I have seem to be as hard on his psyche as mine; I remember immediately after the births of our children he slept like he’d been through the ordeal himself, beaten up if not physically at least emotionally. I can sleep better than my mother, but I have her vigilant patterns; never unconscious long, and up as soon as I wake, padding through the house and starting the coffee.
A daily habit I have secured the last few years: yoga. It is as patently difficult for me to stop my morning efforts, and to roll out that mat, and take time to meditate and slow down. It doesn’t seem any easier today than three years ago, but at least now I have the confidence I will do it regardless of difficulty. What little sanity I seem to rattle around with, is much assisted by my daily practice.
With the colder weather it is darker earlier; it seems impossible it will darken further still steadily into December. I did not, as I’d planned, enjoy the summer to the fullest, and now it is simply gone. Time is absolutely destroying me in more ways than one, but there is a comfort in its relentless pace, absolutely and cheerfully disinterested in my distress, waving a hand idly as her eyes glide past mine.