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The smell of wet leaves
stored in my mind,
stretches back to the first time I realized
that the seasons keep going,
each tripping over the other like rushing kids to the door
who's there? what's going on?
the little things I've stored away in my mind
about falling leaves and the hushing of snow
the strange pictures that float through my mind
of tulips
pushing through it all
squirrels knowing, but not wanting to accept
enjoying packing larders
an image frozen--of gray and erect bodies of
furry hurry
oh these
little wisps
of ideas.
Like steam off the pavement in the summer
that passes so clearly from seen
to nothing.
Gone to dance with clouds and bright sun.
displaced worms and dirty, hot feet
oh, and--the hour the summer melts the world gold.
the blue hour in winter,
when the snow holds everything quiet
and sound, even the loudest melodies
mute for the blueing of the world
seasons are stored in my mind:
inevitable, predictable
harsh and sweet
necessary, lovely
smelling, touching, tasting, wondering.
but often leaving
my mind holding
onto the previous season
slow, lazy, snowflakes
wet, curling leaves
the push of tulips
the steamy pavement.
close your eyes and breathe in the season.

Kom-boo-CHA CHA CHA

I quote Hillary for this simple post. "Most often those DIY projects are easier than you think they're going to be. Especially the ones that you are amazed by before you begin."

Well, kombucha, I thought I was always going to purse my lips and rub my chin and THINK about making you in the way I always put certain things on the bottom of my TD list. Just never going to happen, but I'll put it on the next list as well. Not for you Kombucha! Congrats.

Maine SCOBY, transported in the front seat in a jar down the coast and into a big vat of sugary black coconut posssssssibilities!

Good luck I say to you Kombucha in the cupboard, and good luck to you, Christine, on the next DIY you won't make me DIE project. And thanks to you Hillary, for your continued wisdom.

Kershaw, in the Past Tense

It's pumpkin season. These big and small, hard and sweet masses impressively find their way into everything during the months of September through November. From candles and cakes, to soaps, pies, gratins, you name it. Everything becomes available in 'pumpkin.' I mark the season of gourd goodness in two ways, the most obvious being the appearance of these at the farmers market (the future will find me saying "in my garden"). The second way, the way I am less proud of, but that still makes me smile, is the pumpkin spice coffee varieties that become front and center in the cafes I love to frequent.

My grandmother picked up a giant Kershaw pumpkin two weeks ago when I was visiting. The massive green and white striped orb did not seem to fit into any particular squash family, but is much loved by families who enjoy pie. My grandma claims it's the best for pie. Pumpkin pie is one of those things that you love to love. A rarity in my mostly pie-less childhood, but a symbol of autumn none the less.

I arrived at my parents home with chunks of sweet Kershaw, awaiting the possibilities of heat and seasoning. It was a stopping point. It was my stopping point. Weeks of free post-job travel had come to an end. My toothbrush was staying. Both the Kershaw and myself were expecting answers... what will become of us now?

Two weeks went by in a molasses of uncertainty. I belong where? What am I doing here? What do I do next? Why am I doing nothing to try to accomplish something? What's happening?

I crunched fall leaves under my feet today, in slow appreciation of change. The sun warmed the earth in the front yard and a light breeze brought that fall sweetness to me in the back, crunching leaves and tossing a frisbee to a bouncing golden lab.

I let the question fall on me again. What am I doing? It's that time, yes. I realize that. I did this intentionally, I did this because I wanted to wonder, to try, to change. I want to, rather. Past tense is far from print on this issue yet. Here I find myself, crunching leaves and wondering what changes I can make for myself, what new job, new community, new friends can I make? What passion can I plunge into? And where?

I turn back inside, where a quarter of a huge kershaw still wonders in the moderated temperature of the fridge, what it will become.

I turn on the oven. Some things can't wait any longer. Something needs to cook. The kershaw pie I baked the previous weeks sits unattended under foil in the fridge. The remaining chunks of pale orange and striped skin are thrust into the oven. An hour of mashing and stirring and a giant, warm pot of kershaw and butternut squash are simmering fall flavors into the house. It feels like change, out and in now.

Well, my kershaw is done. It feels good. Time to make the list a bit bigger. Time to find my heat and my spice. Time to love fall and not think I've fallen. It's what I wanted, and even in the loneliest moments I need to realize that a lot of this intense uncertainty with one day, in the nearish future, be written about in the past tense.