One day early last week, just like that, I felt the turn from summer to fall. The light had shifted, the air had an edge to it. This week, even though we're having hot, tomato-ripening, weather, it still feels like fall. I like it, the change from one season to the next. The sense that all the busy of summer is over and we'll soon be tucking into gold-yellow-orange views and warm soup and sweaters and rain. It's been a summer with many good things, but also a sad time, saying goodbye to Jennifer. It feels strange moving on. But that is what happens, we do move on with this new empty place in our hearts. Mid-August, I mentioned to Liz Prato, a writer friend of mine, that I hadn't done much writing and I wondered if I could still do it. She nudged me in the shoulder and said, "You do this every summer. Remember? You'll get right back to it in the fall. You always do." It's true. How many summers I've lamented, "I'm not writing, what if I can't do it anymore" What if I've forgotten how?" Then fall comes and all that worry and fretting goes away. The words flow the minute I sit down, hands to keyboard. The words have been simmering and swirling all summer. I'm glad to have this friend who remembers and can remind me. I'm glad to be sitting here just this moment and writing these words.
Yesterday, the neighborhood peacock came and sat on the stump of tree we had to take down this summer. He's lost his tail feathers. But they'll be back and anyway, isn't he still gorgeous?