ONWARDS TO AUTUMN
I find the end of summer nostalgically romantic - the older I get, the more intensely the feeling infuses those late August days. Saying goodbye to a season, saying goodbye to anything in fact, feels powerful by the very nature of its impermanence. Do you ever find yourself caught up in a particular moment and then feel your heart almost contract with the thought of what you’ll miss when it's over? I find the intensity of that sensation equal parts frightening and beguiling, and it leaves me in awe at the complexity of human emotions.
When it comes to the changing of the seasons, the transitory nature of it all becomes self-serving. Once I begin to feel the season turn, I start tuning into the subtlest of signs, becoming inherently more aware of my surroundings. It’s somewhat addictive to observe how nature slowly morphs from one plane to the next and over the years, I’ve found myself attaching layer upon of layer of sentiment to the process.
I walk the dog around the village taking note of how the air feels - how warm is it - is it still on the sultry side or considerably lighter now? Whilst I haven’t yet actively looked for the turning of the leaves, I’ve already experienced the childish thrill of an acorn crunching underfoot and noted which blackberry bushes are all of a sudden bearing more oozy dark fruit than tightly clasped green spheres.
I recently passed the house that I regularly walked by on the early winter mornings of January this year. In the cold and dark I would absorb the warmth of the kitchen light and look for the signs of morning activity within that, unbeknown to its occupants, were the perfect catalyst for all manner of life story imaginings.
In the warmth of the late summer sun, I swear I almost felt a yearning for those winter walks… which is odd as I fully expected to be hanging onto the last vestiges of summer for dear life again this year. Wistful winter thinking or merely a knee-jerk reaction to trying on the new quilted, down coat (read: duvet with a zip) that arrived earlier that day? In either case, if opportunities to find small joys in the cold, darker seasons offer themselves up, I’ll partake without hesitation - homemade soups, a wood burning fire, candles, a dark, intensely flavoured cocktail mixed on a Friday night. I’m here for it all for as long as I’m here for it all. I’m already enjoying my annual ritual of appreciating the dissipating summer crowds. Those September beach walks where I greet my stretch of beach with the intimacy of an old friend I haven’t seen in a while are the best kind of beach walks.
It may of course have something to do with the fact that this summer holiday has been the longest on record - beginning on 28 May for my departing Year 11 and recently culminating in a new chapter in the form of college. Towards the latter part of the extended break, I found myself craving routine, the structure I’d carved out for myself over the years and those slots of time where the only needs I have to focus on are my own. Accustomed as I am to the back to school mindset that, come September afflicts parents and non-parents alike, I toy with the idea that we only have two more years left of an actual return to a fresh autumn term. And then what - what happens after that? Just one question among numerous others that I’m attempting to steadfastly ignore - don’t jump ahead, live in the present. Time will take care of the rest in ways I don’t need to contemplate yet.
In a manner that feels somewhat alien to me, I've begun entertaining the notion that I can look towards periods of change with both uncertainty and a healthy anticipation. It regularly hits home that the journey through midlife so far has felt like it’s been ALL about change. Changes that I’m starting to realise, I have little control over and, despite efforts to the contrary, cannot influence, halt or even slow down. I admit to finding this concept deeply unsettling - not least because it coincided with the onset of perimenopausal anxiety and the upheaval that goes with it. But now, some five years down the path, I’ve begun to notice an unfamiliar yet wholly welcome sense of something akin to acceptance. It’s by no means a permanent state of mind - it fades in and out, sometimes barely visible, at others, reassuringly bright. But it is beginning to permeate my day to day existence with increasing frequency. As I write this, I even dared ponder if perhaps I was through the worst parts of my own perimenopause - an optimistic thought - the kind I’ve not been used to for a long time. And with it, the realisation that I’ve sorely missed the old, eternally optimistic me.
Like countless song lyrics and the underlying principle of the many self enlightenment books I seem to consume at an impressive rate - change is both inevitable and a constant. I always hear my friend Lou in my head when I think in these overtones - everyone needs a solid voice of reason to defer to and she is one of mine.
To fight against inevitable change is a fruitless pastime that I’m realising I don’t have the energy to devote to - so I find myself trying to apply the old adage of “what will be, will be” to many things. From the realisation that my daughter is fast growing into an adult and acknowledging what that encompasses, to the sometimes bizarre spectacle of a world doing “normal” amid the decidedly un-normal of a global pandemic. Covid rumbles on and at times, I still struggle with the concept of it being a part of life now. Most of those around me, on the surface at least, appear to manage to live among it without too much angst. Communication of concerns, shared worries and uncertainty over what's next seem to have ceased in my circles for the most part. Whilst I’ve made progress in the last six months, I wouldn’t say I was fully “there” yet. We are told by the powers that be that we now have to “live with it” and when it comes to the part about actually living again, I’m in full agreement. But for me, it’s still with a measure of caution and not yet without trepidation or the residual, low hum of background anxiety.
Nonetheless, it is what it is… no influencing, slowing down or controlling remember?
So with a degree of enthusiasm I didn't know I could muster, I’m attempting to usher in autumn with a healthy dose of acceptance in the hope that it will make space for those small, simple moments that count. Making achievable plans of things to look forward to, quashing the what-if’s and trusting that, if required, I can always call upon Glennon Doyle’s mantra of “We Can Do Hard Things”. Because even when we think we can’t, we can.
And if, like me, you often wonder just how we should live in a world that sometimes feels like it contains too much sorrow, I have two things that might be of help. The first is to remember that only the negative makes a worthy headline - the good, the uplifting and the simply joyous happen all the time - it by and large, just goes unreported.
The second is a comment I saw written on this thoughtful Instagram post by Angie Wendricks from @countyroadliving. She wrote about feeling grateful for a life lead, alongside feelings of guilt over living in a world that at times, can feel sad and heavy. The response from @kblhayward really resonated...
“You beautifully said what I feel so often. And my answer to myself is to be fully alive and grateful for every moment I have as much as I can and treat those around me with kindness. Doing otherwise is to squander the beauty we have been given.”
Onwards to autumn it is...
