I drink my morning cup slowly. Breathing the last of this warm, autumn air. It placates me, soothing my ruffled feathers, bedding me down slowly for the long winter.
My bare feet curl in Indian style on the front porch stairs and I watch the wind grant peeks of blue in a patchwork of grey, green, white, and brilliant orange. I am autumn. And it is me.
She asks me why yesterday, in the car, and I tell her it is because of the colors. My favorites. The dark, heavy, northern blue sky, the russet orange of the trees, and that surprising green backdrop. That is why I am autumn I tell her. Because these colors are my favorite.
But this morning I am autumn because I am impatient, rushing the process, thinking that the quicker all of me can die, the faster winter will set in and then leave. I am preparing for spring.
Two night ago I say to a friend, "You know me. I don't sit around twiddling my thumbs, waiting. I can't abide the idea of biding my time." But this season seems to be just that.
Reap in accordance with kindness.
Break up your fallow ground,
for it is time to seek the Lord until
He comes to rain righteousness on you.
And this year the breaking has happened, hurting every part of my person, touching every hardened place in my ground, crumbling it all into small soil. And after the sowing has taken place, seeds pushed into the soft earth, the earth closes over with its promise of protection. After that, I hunker down, letting the air placate me for the long wait.
And we wait.
(I wrote this post on this porch, on those steps in October 2007.)
(Photo by Ben Hull, photographer extraordinaire)
(No, really, extraordinaire.)