I have long been absent. I’ve been working two jobs since August, on top of being a single mom, and I just haven’t had any time or motivation to write. But I have a little of both right now, and not too long ago a friend told me she missed my posts. It meant the world to me to hear that.
A week or two ago I was looking back through old journals and found this entry from almost six years ago. I know I have written other similar entries because it is still what I feel. Every year.
The change of the seasons is intertwined with my soul. What happens in Nature also happens within me. The gray sky, the morning fog, the jeweled moon at night above the mountains, and the cold air kissing my skin haul in memory, attach it to my mind. It drags behind me through the change and beyond. A wondrous, mysterious time, but also a dark time.
For some reason the past is tied to the change in seasons—at least summer to autumn and autumn to winter. As the seasons change my mind is filled with memories of the past, some good, some bad and some good that feel bad now because of changes that have happened. The memories achingly gnaw at me, often confuse me, sometimes consume me. Perhaps part of it is the seasonal affective disorder that is already beginning. Or maybe I’m just . . . weird. Maybe I’m that last red maple leaf, stubbornly clinging to the tree and what was, yet unable to hold on as winter rips me free, waiting on the frozen ground for what spring and summer inevitably have in store.