Hello Fall!

“She enjoys rain for its wetness, winter for its cold, summer for its heat. She loves rainbows as much for fading as for their brilliance. It is easy for her, she opens her heart and accepts everything.”

-Morgan Llywelyn, Bard: The Odyssey of the Irish

 

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But for me, I accept Fall a little more.

The nights are cooled, air softly chilling the trees, the ground, the toys that got left outside.

Hello Fall! I want to live in your indention with my sweater and scarf and heap of leaves with a warm drink that I will be careful not to spill.

These months are cozy and they draw me in with palms open and fingers stretched outwards. Music is louder, pumpkin is in all my foods, boots get pulled on.

Hello Fall.

Because I live in Southern California, my fall is a estranged cousin of real fall. My fall is mild temperatures and superfluous scarfs and gloves, but we wear them anyway, because we want to feel like we’re part of something. We sip hot beverages and sit by the fire because it’s iconic. We go to pumpkin patches in mall parking lots where a tarp is laid down, then wood shavings, and finally scattered pumpkins that were shipped in from Illinois. We crunch over the wood, tricking our senses. We’re not really in a mall parking lot, we are in the woods, we brought our knife, and we will find the perfect gourd and slice it off the vine.

The glow of the Sears sign snaps us back, and reality settles in. We find our pumpkin next to a Prius, and then buy it for 26 dollars.

Hello Fall.

A Salute to Saturday Mornings

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Mornings:

A tiptoe into a soft creation of new

A hand shake and mucho gusto

Pleased to meet you, today.

Sun is gentle, light

Pressing itself in between the cracks in the windows, pouring in, like it’s made of liquid, until it floods the room.

***

On weekdays our mornings are frantic and hurried.

Lunches get packed, heads get kissed, and we’re out the door.

Forgotten dishes still warm with oatmeal will get hardened in the sink as the car is put in reverse.

Here we go.

Bump. Bump, vroom.

***

But Saturday morning is what mornings are made of. Spun from sun and silk and sleeping in, and Saturday.

Oh sweet Saturday.

We celebrate with charisma, and the warm sound of a fresh record plays the soundtrack of our day. We celebrate with a box of sweetness or a walk to a new place, an adventure where we all get along, we gravitate towards love, and kisses, and goodness. Because there is nothing to do except be alive.

We draw a breath, hold it in our lungs until our sides feel like bursting, then let it out in a release.

This is it.

We are it.

Saturday.

Sweet Saturday.