Autumn is drawing to a close, leaving that glorious blaze of colour and warmth juxtaposed with the barest hint of chill. Halloween is past, as is apple picking season, and so too trail hiking and carved pumpkins and gardening*. There’s still Thanksgiving to look forward to, and the first magical snowfall, and Christmas, but after that it’s the long, bleak stretch to spring.
I can’t wait.
I know, y’all. I’m an anomaly. I look forward to the fallow months. I love snowstorms and shoveling and the misty grey-and-brown-and-white landscape. I love cooking for the season: soups and stews, anything you can make in a slow cooker, the chance I might – finally – try to make yeast breads. I love snuggling up under a blanket, book in hand and kitty on feet. I adore hauling and stacking logs for the wood stove. I’m a natural at chopping kindling. I love the enforced introspection: time to create, to focus anew, to attack those projects that are so easily avoided in the warmth and light and easy mobility of the other three seasons. This year I will learn, properly, to knit. I’ll expand my basic crochet skills. I’ll try to acquire actual technique on the ukulele. I’ll try to acquire actual vocal technique. I’ll dive into guitar and mandolin. I’ll write a song or three. I’ll continue this blog. I’ll incorporate true strength training into my workout routine. I’ll write fiction again: short stories, character sketches, a novella. I’ll skritch my kitties, because who knows how much longer my engagement girls will be with us? I’ll kiss my sweetie, a lot, because I want him to know how much I love him, and also: it’s fun. I’ll knock a good chunk off my TBR. Maybe I’ll write some reviews. I’ll learn how to use my DSLR, hopefully with some help. I’ll do some acting. I’ll do some dancing, once I learn how.
I’ll embrace the dark and the cold and the quiet, because it is in those times that we have the chance to find what we can do. It’s where joy is born. Honestly: I can’t wait.
*re: the latter, I’m so very relieved. I truly believe that somewhere inside of me, there is a capable and/or intuitive gardener just waiting to get out. Unfortunately, terms of parole have yet to be established, and I just keep mucking things up.