We are just days away from the calendar declaring that summer has turned to autumn. Boy oh boy, I can really feel it in the air this morning. I’ve been out in the garden puttering, and there is a decided nip. While the kale and chard and spinach and lettuce are shouting hurrah for the cooler temps, I can feel the tomatoes and peppers sadly starting to close up shop.
I feel exactly the same way: like shouting hurrah while feeling sad.
I love the chilly evenings for sleeping, burrowing down under a blanket (or two!) rather than lying atop my bed starring at the ceiling fan going round and round.
I love the brisk mornings for the aerobic walk around the neighborhood with Sheltie Lucy, rather than the slow, slower, slowest steps taken, aware that if I am sweating like the proverbial stuck pig, poor Lucy in her luxuriant fur coat is sweltering beyond belief.
I love the chance to dig and move compost and do other larger garden chores without feeling like I’m going to melt.
Yet I miss being able to run outdoors barefoot; I miss the long evenings; I miss the feeling that the growing season is stretching out before me endlessly.
It’s this way for me with every changing of season. I love the new and yet long to hang on to the old just a little longer. . .
That’s me; the hanger on-er. It seems like every lesson I have to learn during this amazing journey has to do with letting go. Generally life wants me to let go before I want to, and yet once I make up my mind to, new wonderfulness rushes in and all is well. Season after season, I struggle with the letting go. Season after season I relish the newness and freshness rushing in.
Life’s so full of endless hellos and goodbyes, all to be cherished.
(Don’t tell, but I’m still hoping for a long Indian Summer.)