tigerlily

autumn is here. for me, it has come too soon. the invitation said 6pm, but here she is, ringing my door bell at 4 o'clock in the afternoon. my hair is not done. i've just stepped out of the bath, i have no idea what i am wearing, and fuck the house is still a mess. but there she is, none the less. persephone, with her bags all packed and laughter like cold little bells, grabbing my hand and pulling me out the door. "to the underworld!" she says cheerily.

i am not ready for the underworld. we have had no summer here in the city. we went from fall, to winter, to spring, back to winter, to one week of indian summer, and now back to winter. it's been cold, grey and foggy the majority of june, july and august, and my bones are not retaining nearly enough heat to withstand the descent. "turn back the clock!" i wail, "i only went swimming once this summer! it's too soon!". but there is no stopping the seasons, the wheel. and so the days grow short, and i resentfully pull on my sweater and sigh. god i hate sweaters.

i walk around the streets of san francisco, seeing the leaves drop from the trees, my heart dropping a little with them. it just was such a hard year. i was counting on the brightness of summer to satiate my desires, to fill up my tank, to burn out the last remnants of damp. recently i was opened at a core level by some beatufiul, deep contact with someone special, and the openness has remained although the contact has not. i feel raw and unprotected, wondering what on earth i was thinking, opening all the shutters in the house as the first frost approaches. my mother calls me to tell me that my aunt helene will unexpectedly be in my hometown, visiting from the east coast, to see my father tomorrow. in this state of being flung wide, i am immediately reduced to tears, without even particularly knowing why. my aunt helene, who is 85, who has been on my mind consistently over the past week. i have been aware that it has been too long since i saw her, that i am playing russian roullette with my luck of seeing her before she passes on. my aunt helene, who taught me how to swim. my aunt helene, who secretly gave me "the chronicles of narnia", and later, "little women", the two books that would become the definitive imaginative landscape of my childhood. my aunt helene who taught me to walk through the forest like a native american, and who gave me the gift of understanding, of being truly seen, for a kid who lived with a short supply. suddenly, all inertia around making sure i see her again is gone. whatever i have to do, whether it is drive home tomorrow or make sure that i can connect with her in SF before her flight leaves, it is absoutely imperative that i make it happen. here we all are, my family, my father, my aunt, all of us, at the end of the road. here is where the story ends, the narrative that we have been spinning together, the story that we tell each other. the moment is sharp, acute.


i pause for a moment with leo at the dog park, taking in the blue of the sky, the green patina of a church spire, the fall wind brushing my neck. i look at the brown hills and the houses against the sky and breathe deep. it is a moment of intense gratitude for life, for that moment, for this one. this time here, you and i, together, is so brief. i am so in love with the world, with all it's beauty and pain, the suffering and the magnificence, and i am all too aware, most of the time these days, of just how heartbreakingly precious the opportunity of being alive with an awake and tender heart really is. i wonder what we wait for.

i take in my harvest, my blessings and my sorrows, the plans that came through, the ones that did not, and i collect seeds, my seeds of hopes, dreams, ideas. the ones i will plant, pressing down into the cooling soil, covering with mulch, dried leaves, dried straw. i will hibernate with my seeds. i will weave my future, utilizing the darkening skies to see beyond, letting my eyes adjust to the dim.

and damn i hope we get some heat in october.