Breathing Life Into October

I have to admit, there are times when the keen yearning inside me wins over common sense and wisdom, and I must go adventuring into the dark, chilled, misty days of fall, whether or not my aching bones and stiff joints agree.  This October began with a taste of mid-November, and I do not deny I love it.

There is so much depth to being out it the elements, a peaceful touching of the soul.  I have the parks to myself; I can allow Brou the luxury of freedom, to run about in erratic, happy circles, chasing nasty chittering squirrels and galloping through the mud.  The experience is always priceless, for the both of us. 

I have the roads to myself as well.  Few cars are out in the meat of the day, late morning to early afternoon, and with the biting, stinging rains, nary another person dares trod my same path.  With all that open space, I can commence with the grooving and the spacing out and the total submersion into my surroundings. 

The weather does not quite match the season, so there are only a handful of trees dressed in their fancies, but they are stunning-gleaming red and orange, wet, slick, glowing in the odd light of day fog.  They whiz by me when the wind kicks up and flings them around, as if annoyed that such a garish thing could be out on such a dismal day.  Of course, the wind feels much the same about me, I’m sure-how dare this outlandish biped bounce along listening to music whilst the winds howl.  

What draws me to the outside in these harsh conditions is more than sense stimulation, though.  I love the clarity that overtakes my brain when I’m striding brazenly in the damp, raw air.  Something about it spins my thoughts into beautiful patterns and magical journeys.  I don’t feel the need to restrain any part of it, so the wanderings are much like Brou’s unleashed whirling dervishes, caroming off each other like electrons, igniting sleepy brain waves.  There is no drug like it, no substance of any kind that can duplicate it. 

I compose as I go, fill pages in my mind, repeat them over and over, try not to forget the important bits.  I embrace a rhythm, breathe in, step-step, breathe out, step-step, a chant, a mantra, in, step-step, out, step-step, a sing-song to hang onto the words I want to share, a long way from home, miles to go, in, step-step, out, step-step. 

Often, I get too caught up in the way the world is in harmony with my own rhythm, and forget the words anyway.  That really doesn’t matter most times, for there are always more words coming.  With nothing but mist and the smell of wood smoke and foggy breath, all flows as it should, just like energy flows through the body when I do Yoga.  I can figure out complicated parenting issues, analyze my learnings over the years, put into perspective why I feel the way I do about belief and politics and humanity, understand who I am and what I need to do to make my way in this world.  I dissolve worry and stress instantly, and replace it with peace and wonder at how amazing life really is.  

The world can keep their hot summer days.  I don’t come alive until October.  I’m working again, functioning at peak performance. I have time to process, to delve, to express thoughts and ideas.  I can focus on creating gruesome Halloween displays or crocheting some more on my afghan; I can bake classics like apple pies, or create something totally new, like the spice cake I invented-pieced together from a multitude of recipes, none of which were exactly right, complete with home-made cream cheese frosting. I can imagine fairy folk all around me, hiding in the misty shadows of old-growth trees, or gnomes scurrying about readying themselves for the winter months, or nasty trolls lying in wait under the footbridge over the creek, hoping to catch an unsuspecting dog off guard.  What is not to love about this time of year?

There is profound significance to Autumn, a connection to the primitive parts of the brain as well.  This is preparation time, gathering time, storing time.  It lights the lamp of fantasy, of stories by a fire, of wrapping hands around cups of hot buttered cider and watching snow clouds gather, knowing all is buckled down and awaiting the transition. 

It brings to mind the coming together of beloved friends and family to wile away the hours in pleasant conversation over a lovely dinner of rich and decadent foods, the smell of turkeys roasting or pumpkin pies cooling, all done with sharing as the core reason for the effort.  This is the time to be grateful for good harvests, to be thankful for the good company around us, to share with all the benefits of what we’ve reaped and gathered and learned along the way.  This is the time to let the inner child inside come out to play, to dress in outrageous fashion and parade down the streets of town, demanding candy from strangers, to suspend doubts and fears and worries over the troubles of the world, to not be concerned with queer, sideways looks by others not privy to the secrets of those who can tap into this bountiful supply of the elixir of life.  It’s magic, whether or not anyone chooses to believe it or not-it’s magic to me, anyway.

I leave this endeavor behind now, with a sense of completion to fill in the holes left behind when I give this part of myself over to others.  I managed to hang onto the vital points of the message, so I feel blessed, content, open to the next task ahead of me, whatever that may be. I thank you, for giving me the precious, valuable gift of your time, and know that I recognize just how extraordinary that is.  Do have a happy, won’t you?  I’d consider it an honor if my words bring any of you just that.  

Love and light,
Tanya