There is nothing to write about and everything to write about.
Most days lately I’m in awe of my life. I walk past my home and stop to admire it as though it were something I long for and then I realize – this – this is mine. While standing inside, I watch the light change on the trees across the road as bright leaves fall to the ground like pieces of sunshine landing. This fall has been glorious and the beauty is astounding. I do not want to forget that.
But the river is showing itself more each day – at first it could barely be glimpsed through the orange, yellow, red leaves and it was calm, flowing as rivers do. Now it is clearly visible and today it is rushing.
There is something here about patterns, rhythm, ritual. The earth starts over each day but it is seasonally that we really get a tangible sense of this. As children we notice leaves changing or fog close to the ground in the mornings and as adults, if we are lucky, we can hone in on that visceral sense that we are being pulled along through those days, those seasons, those years. “Autumn,” after all, indicates the later part of our existence.
But if we are unlucky, we will look back suddenly and see behind us the years that have happened in a blink. “Wow, how time flies,” we will say in a cliche way, unable to articulate that slightly sick, wistful feeling that comes with being unable to really grasp what it is we have missed, if anything. No one wants regrets.
There are amazing things ahead – things I would have only dared dream about in the past (and grateful I am for having dreamed them)! There is hope. There is wonder.
But there is also that rushing river down below with its momentum and its undercurrents and today, I am working to stay afloat.