Many weeks have elapsed since the height of summer, and now the annual autumnal nip in the air signals the change in weather and routine. It feels like it should be later than it is in September; not even mid-month are we, yet those beach-like days and the trip to Yellowstone seem miles away. Why have no words or thoughts come to mind to be shared in these weeks? Is it a block not only on writing, or thinking, but on life?
No, that sounds too drastic. While days are filled with work, and jobs at work undone, and new half-priced perennials we can’t seem to plant, and weeds everywhere, and paperwork required for our car problems, a more accurate picture would simply be: transition. Fewer walks taken with the dog on the marsh mean fewer pensive thoughts, except for the other day when I dreamed of writing a new book entitled, The Art of Living. I envisioned exploring the art of conversation, observation, writing, reflection, in short: all those things which require the time we seem to lack in spades. But never fear; the critique from one member of the family plus all this household administration have choked out the idea, probably for the best.
So I scratch my head for things of significance to post. Thankfully the local grocery store blight from the summer is resolved; the world is seeing much trouble; our kids are trying to settle into their new places and stages; we are wistful for peace. I should remind myself big things take time, and there is much wonder in the small, after all. If I close my eyes, I can just about conjure up those vistas of clear running water, sauntering bison, and spots of smouldering Earth.