Beyond My Wildest Dreams

It’s not like winter – where on the worst days – I envision lonely tired people dragging their lonely tired Christmas trees to the curb for trash pickup. That used to be my heartbreak barometer. When I am weak, or lonely and tired, I envision other people as weak, or lonely and tired, only because I’m projecting my own heartbreak among the woodsmoke. The days get tired and lonesome earlier, as the weaker sun sets behind our tall trees – way before I’m ready. Every sniffle brings warning of one of those dreadful 2-4 week colds of yesteryear. Oh my goodness, remember that? I started 2020 with a cold so bad I would CRY in the bathtub. I’d just cry. Now I’d assume so much worse than a common cold. How quickly the wind changes, and brings with it warnings that far exceed lonely tired Christmas trees. Yet I wait, and I remember.

This year the cool breezes have been a relief, whereas the summer’s stifling air threatened to choke me, along with pregnancy and fear-related breathlessness. And let’s not even talk about anxiety, and let’s not even talk about COVID, or COVID anxiety. Do we even need to? No, we don’t. Let’s talk about fall, and all the best things and the worst things, and how they come together like a swirling and golden bunch of leaves in the wind. A mini tornado, mind you. In August I always think, “Don’t make me say goodbye to summer just yet.” And it’s that August has a particular look, a particular sound, a particular smell and a particular feel. There’s probably even a taste in there somewhere. I used to be more afraid of the cold and darkness. I thought they would go through my skin to my heart. It’s not usually what happens. I have to remember.

It gets me in the spring and it gets me in the fall. I rather settle into summer and winter because they’re less transitional. When my life topples suddenly out of place, I put it back together as best as I can. Then it happens again, and I patch and stitch it back together, but not in the same way. It’s a new way to embrace and learn and find the grooves and the comforts. It changes and some parts are familiar and ancient, and others are brand new. Like a patchwork sweater, I learn to wear it old and new, and find all the ways to let it hold me as I pull it closer and closer in, and all around. In the time of COVID-19 and fall babies, though, all bets are off.

I’ve only ever been pregnant, first trimester pregnant, in the fall. How can I tell you what the chill in the air means to me, and all of the sensation and trepidation? I’m no stranger to the warm and cold comforts. My god, do I love flannel shirts, crisp leaves, hot pumpkin coffee, and warm autumn stew. I love the way fall reminds me of childhood – of ill-fitting striped sweatshirts and weekends at home. Soccer games and my mom’s chili simmering evenly on the stove. The promise of falls to come and what I’ll give her. Him. And the new one too. I’ve never given birth in fall, but I look forward to his warm gaze and reach melting my frosting heart. To remember.

The truth is, though, that fall keeps me in the present. It’s the best of times, and the worst of times. Too much sensory goodness. Usually, it’s the constant photo shoots and how I pay particular attention to the foliage, the sunset times, and the turning of the earth around the sun. In fall, I swear I can feel it tilting – softly, swiftly, endlessly. This year, the pandemic and the pregnancy may cancel nearly all of my usual professional photo shoots. That’s ok. This year it’s the constant baby kicks and how I pay attention to the sunset times, and the turning of the earth around the sun. He kicks and I stop and breathe. If fall picks up the pieces that summer scattered, may we throw caution to that wind and hope we don’t have to gather every last piece.

Oh no, I remember. September has that particular look, that particular sound, that particular smell and that particular feel. There’s probably even that taste in there somewhere. Candy apples, maybe. Bitter and sweet the way they draw you in and break your teeth down. We held so much hope on spring, and then summer, and now it’s nearly fall, and with it comes its gang of retail madness and holiday frenzy. Everyone wears a mask for Halloween this year, and the buses are flowing at half capacity, if they’re flowing at all. I no longer cling to calendar months.

What can I tell you about the best and worst things about fall, and what can I tell you about the best and worst things about fall in a pandemic, and while pregnant? I can tell you that you notice and appreciate every turned leaf, every clasped hand, every baby kick, every easy breath, and every resting heartbeat. The best thing about fall, and the worst thing about fall, is the hope. Worst, because no one likes to see it crushed and dashed, and the best, because no matter where you are in life, and you may find yourself in strange places, the coming of fall brings a unique light and unique hope. It calls you home, in your heart, wherever you may be.

I’m linking up with Finish The Sentence Friday (FTSF) for a new prompt. This week’s awesome new writing topic is “The best (or worst) part of Fall is..” You can link up your own post HERE.