The last of the leaves fell from the trees late last week. They raced across the ground for a couple of days on the cold November winds and sounded like old bones coming back to life. Then, yesterday morning, the landscapers arrived and now they are all just…gone.
The seasons are changing.
Nothing is left to rot in suburbia but I wonder if it is because everything is rotten in suburbia. This town is full of people who think that they have the right to let their dogs shit in other people’s yards and on other people’s plants. My neighborhood is full of people who would rather park on the street to be closer to the church (and create a clusterfuck of congestion) than park in the designated lots that are across the street.
The seasons are changing, and so am I.
Like the plants outside, I can sense a dormancy rising. I am no longer aligned with the light schedule – I stay up too late and sleep into the morning. Without the magic of the Hollows, and with the consumerism of the “most wonderful time of the year” on the horizon, I’d like to go to sleep and hibernate until January.
It would be nice to miss the darkest days. It would be nice to miss the social stressors and the gift-giving anxieties. I want to lick my pandemic wounds in silence and solitude.
Not everything sleeps though. My cyclamen is coming back to life. Every day, the petals become brighter and more defined. This plant doesn’t need much – indirect light, occasional water, but, most importantly, cooler temperatures. When I want to retreat, it grows and thrives.
There are deep lessons there, waiting to be explored.
The seasons are changing, but so am I.