The leaves start falling around here with what seems like no notice. The air has not changed, in fact, this September is warmer than the months it follows. There has been no cold snap, and no real hint of winter to facilitate leaves falling, or even changing color. And yet here they come – and with one brown crunchy leaf, fluttering across the warm, still air in front of me, I am gutted and wrenched back into this familiar, and very old, flavor of longing. The longing that harks back to the scent and heat of soup on the stove, squash in the oven, the sun setting early, and love and safety of home.
For whatever reason, fall makes me feel my longing even deeper. My longing to come home after an odyssey of a summer, epic travels into wood and wind and dust, mountain tops and star-lit lakes; home from the arms of old lovers and new, home from the beautiful strange and ever evolving constructs of human dreams. We are all scurrying back to our burrows, brushing the world from our belongings and storing them under eves, stoking the hearth fire, circling our home wagons, greeting the familiar faces of neighbors, reaching out arms to our family, sinking deeply into our beloved’s embrace.
Where is my beloved? Where is my home with the hearth to tend? My eves under which to store my belongings? I am here. I am here. I am here.
I’m told that this is my five-year, my year of adventure, constant change, and nothing stable. I don’t get these things now. And yet, I am here. I am here. I am here.
In this moment, I am uprooted, ungrounded, a pile of belongings cruising through the east bay in a white prius, a collection of clothing finding shoulders and a back that finds a bed – not my own – for my head full of unknown.
I am terrified. I am excited. I am centered. I am whole. I am floating on the wind, at the whim of God, and God knows what else. I am fragile. I am a big heart heaving with love. I am a big spirit pulsing with longing. I am here. I am here. I am here.