My heart is in my throat, the evidence of things unseen. The turmoil which accompanies unsettledness visits again and I feel like my greatest idol is, once again, on the altar of boiling point. Change comes and rips my finally content will to be satisfied, no matter what the circumstances, out and dares me to question the wisdom of newness and growth. My flesh screams and plays tug-of-war with the righteousness that is the Christian Life. I declare I will win no matter what the cost and still I never do.
So be prepared for the inevitable, the unexpected. Don't melt down the idol of constancy, only to pour it into the mold of consistency.
Everyone seems to be changing their online ambiance to reflect the real live autumn outside. Pumpkin and brown, golden and orange, spice and sage, clear sky blue and winter grey and suddenly my apple green doesn't seem conductive.
Put away your linen pants and sleeveless tanks, unpack the corduroys and wool. Skip the leather flip-flops and tie on your Martens. Button up your flannel and hide your hands in your pockets. The chill has come and with it only self found warmth.
But this will stay the same. It seems to be the only thing that does for me.
When I was younger my brothers, mum and I would spend three weeks in New England every autumn. We stayed in a Chalet with another family, also containing several boys. So ten boys and I would rake leaves, jump in them, hike in the woods, eat apples and tell ghost stories until too late every night for three glorious weeks each year. We would walk to the corner store in Dorset, Vermont, and savor sour patch kids. I bought my first pocket knife there, spending all the money I'd saved for so long, just for that occasion. And I read my still favorite book there for the first time. I saw the Morgan Horse farm and vowed to have a farm someday. I had my first kiss there and shot a BB gun on the hill. We played in the dumb waiter which passed through all four floors and I learned how to play pool in the attic, hidden behind a tapestry which had hung there since the Civil War. I took showers in the freezing water and we toasted marshmallows in the fireplace.
Every October I think about New England. I think about that Chalet and who is creating memories there right now. I think about a boy and I think about a book I haven't read in a long time. I remember my vow to have a farm and remind myself not to make vows. I remember the apples and I remember when the dumb waiter fell too quickly to the cellar floor.
I remember Autumn in New England.
