In which we buy a car, and it's fraught with pitfalls. The pandemic makes the ordeal even more arduous. In addition, there's shifting priorities as I age, my dear old VW bug, and David Crosby of course.
Early November, pre-election time. Some years I'm poised at the edge, days fraught with worry or full of hope. Other years I pass the time with lighthearted endeavors. I don't actually remember - it's what I posted on Facebook.
I've made several changes since moving and retiring. Not exactly reinventing myself, more like seeing what fits, what's stale, what's no longer needed, wanting to create a more intentional life. I'm still the same me I was before moving, but I do feel different. The shifts have been a mix of purposeful, accidental, and unexpected.
My feelings about the change of seasons haven't changed. The shift comes as an affront to my sensibilities. I seem to write this way every fall equinox. I'm always sad to bid goodbye to summer. I love the heat, the fewer clothes, the lush garden; the carefree part is a visceral memory of childhood. I'm still adjusting to the seasons here, and perhaps always will.
It's an in-between time around here. Red, yellow, and orange leaves cover the ground and linger in the tree branches, hanging on til the next big winds. Rain alternates between torrents and sprinkles. I've just been in a "should I stay or should I go" sort of mood.
Anyone can become a writer. It hasn't been a straight path or an easy journey for me. But here are 52 steps that will get you on your way.
Here I go walking in circles again. If it's not one direction out my front door, it's the other, always in circles, round and round the neighborhood, looping past the same houses, same yards, same trees.
Adaptation comes little by little, accepting what I must, embracing what I can, trying to not tip over. I can do this, I can do this. I have no choice.
What will be my Quarantine Story, what tales will I tell in five years, or 10 or 20? Will it be a story of victory or sadness, revelation or survival, entertainment or boredom, or even joy? Which stories will last, and which will be of the moment?
This week I'm looking to see or hear what the trees are trying to tell me, They are stark and dramatic now, and their personalities revealed without the extravagance of leaves. The trees' rain-darkened bones stand out clearly, accentuated against the skies' lighter backdrop.