going inside
I sit in solemn Sunday with a dull dark thought - at the end of a long weekend spent in large part outside, despite the chill wind and encroaching clouds. Don and I took to the woods for a few days on our first little trip away together; we cheered ourselves in all the ways one does in the woods, warming our hands and eyeballs and temporary temperaments with a generously-fed fire. Back home, I'm still trying to warm my body in this settling-in autumn, tea brewing and scarves wrapping and cats cuddling all around. It's a time of year I find it a little easier to do nothing, to see my to-do list as relatively meaningless while soup and scary movies feel much more relevant to life.
This time around, I don't know. The Spooky Season procession of holidays (which include Christmas, thank you) will have to proceed without much fanfare while we all figure out how to make do as outdoor getting-togethers begin to feel more unreasonable and uncomfortable. I honestly don't think I'll mind too much. I have always enjoyed the leaning-in to introversion that accompanies fall, when I go inside not only in an architectural sense but also a personal one. Fall starts to close off the outside world and invites me in to smaller spaces, little hidden crevasses in the city and dusty chambers in my mind. It's a time for stories and mystery, candles and magic, that quiet seeking alone-ness that happens best in the dark.
Someone said at the beginning of a recent winter that "winter is the season that brings back the light," and that helped me think about the long slog through the cold with a little more optimism. But I don't mind that fall is the season that steals the light away. It brings along moods in which I love to steep. Now I'll be Sarah-tea.
This time around, I don't know. The Spooky Season procession of holidays (which include Christmas, thank you) will have to proceed without much fanfare while we all figure out how to make do as outdoor getting-togethers begin to feel more unreasonable and uncomfortable. I honestly don't think I'll mind too much. I have always enjoyed the leaning-in to introversion that accompanies fall, when I go inside not only in an architectural sense but also a personal one. Fall starts to close off the outside world and invites me in to smaller spaces, little hidden crevasses in the city and dusty chambers in my mind. It's a time for stories and mystery, candles and magic, that quiet seeking alone-ness that happens best in the dark.
Someone said at the beginning of a recent winter that "winter is the season that brings back the light," and that helped me think about the long slog through the cold with a little more optimism. But I don't mind that fall is the season that steals the light away. It brings along moods in which I love to steep. Now I'll be Sarah-tea.