Interlude

Christmas has come and gone and I have a few quiet days this week. Looking back on this year seems a pointless exercise, and looking ahead is filled with mixed emotions. And yet perhaps the worst feeling of all is this sense of stasis that I cannot shake. How many times have I told myself to just get on with it already, only to creep away to nap or stare mindlessly into a blank screen? I never used to understand the act of making New Year's resolutions, but I realize now it comes from that hinterland between unchangable past and unnamed future. And so I'm making a list and checking it twice and will see what happens. Or something like that.

small sights

Last night I walked my brief walk home more slowly, without my usual stream of music. I noticed the waxy glow of streetlights against ochre-colored leaves. The empty park, looking forlorn with its absence of dogs and children. The row of red and white headlights, flanking the river, now more visible in the early gloom. And the uneven array of lit windows, offering me a quick glimpse of others' lives—a shopping bag tossed on a table, a man's back as he walks across the room, a television set flickering in the distance.

And as I took pleasure in noticing these small things, I felt wistful too. The flashes of warmth and light against the darkening night made me lonely, made me sad to walk into my own quiet box. I wished I were walking into a bright home, full of movement and bustle and brightness and chatter. I'm usually scared by these things, but I miss them too.

A ramble

Saturday started off with me feeling underslept, overanxious, and a touch ill-kempt. So I bundled my hair into a knob at the back of my head, guzzled some coffee, and went for a stroll around Fresh Pond. It wasn’t entirely attitude changing, since I still spent parts of the weekend not daring to look at things too closely, but it is remarkable what sunlight will do. And blue sky, and bluer water, and colors right out of the paint palette--alizarin crimson, viridian, cadmium yellow.

The sea, the sea

For a good chunk of my adolescent years I wanted to be a marine biologist. I went to summer camp and everything. I wish I had a good story for why I wanted to be a marine biologist, but in fact the idea just popped into my head and took up residence there. As an eleven-year-old I decided zoologists were passé, so marine biology it was. Not the most inspired start and perhaps one of the reasons I wandered down a different path of study. But for many years I spent hours reading and dreaming about the what lies beneath the surface. I could tell you the intricacies of gourami bubble nests and argue that the emerald-eyed chain catshark is one of the sea’s most beautiful fish and describe how limpets return to their home scar with each tide. I had a book on coral reefs and would gaze at the photos, mesmerized by the jeweled dapples of wrasses and nudibrach and haunted by the of a lone diver suspended in inky depths, so eerie and yet familiar.

And then, in common fashion, I grew up and away.

The ocean became the beach, a place where the sun is too hot and the sand rubs your heels and you’re never quite comfortable with how your bathing suit fits. A place of crowds and noise and garbage. A place that held little sway over me.

But this year I felt the sea pull me back. The ocean in the fall is a wondrous thing. It feels new and bare and fresh again once vacationers have left. I only had time for a brief stroll and I regret that I didn't let the waves film over my ankles. But I'm thinking about it still. The way the small rocks and weeds cast tiny shadows in the clear early morning light. The trailing arms of seaweed, so simple and so intricate, remnants of a hidden forest.

I will return again.

Arise

It is my wont to formulate resolutions that I then quickly forget about and often on that list appear dependable truisms such as “save your pennies,” “don’t drink wine like it’s water,” “and if you do drink wine like it’s water for love of all things peaceful don’t start talking politics,” and “stop procrastinating and get on with it already.” Worthy things indeed. Also on that list is the desire to get outside first thing in the morning.

Whether for a run or a stroll, the kiss of morning air on my face invigorates me. This weekend I managed to sneak my camera out in between rain showers. I swoon over all of fall’s colors, but I think I prefer this time, before the leaves turn in mass, the most. The sudden hints of red and yellow amidst the greenery, which just a few weeks ago was looking brittle and dull but has now regained some of its lushness.

Rotund fruits and ragged wildflowers are now the belles of the ball, gracing us with their modest beauty in these late gold days.

I also want to find a rhythm to my posting and hope to be back tomorrow to declare my love for the late September ocean.

How I've been spending my days

Moored in my bed, legs lost in a tangle of sheets. Watching bands of light and shadow flicker across the ceiling with that curious sense of consciousness that comes from pseudophedrine, where everything is leached of color and shape. A sea of tissues and cough drop wrappers cover the floor, and glasses half full of water are staged on every surface.

All the heirloom tomatoes and leafy greens and poblano peppers are slowly wilting and rotting as I eat macaroni and cheese from a blue box and guzzle Tropicana. I think the most nutritious thing I’ve eaten is a poached egg on buttered white toast.

But in my waking moments I’ve devoured a book and learned the patterns of the pigeons wheeling outside my window.

Palely loitering

Just one week ago I was all a fizz and a flutter, all spots of sun and light as air. But now I feel mired in the muck. Unwilling to invest the energy to do the things I want to do, and instead I remain fettered to all the things I wish to slough off.

I had intended to write a more aspirational post but I think I’m going to muddle on that a bit longer.

So instead I will bid goodbye to my beloved summer vines.

Each year I get so attached to that common tangle, a mixed marriage locust and milkweed and rosehip, gartered by honeysuckle and starred with wild iris and morning glory.

The hedges are trimmed back each fall but it seems like it happened earlier this year. Now it’s bleak and dull and without fail makes me think of the first stanza of “La Belle Dame Sans Merci.” I suppose there could be worse things to think of than Keats. But I will miss my quiet mornings there, soothed by the chatter of sparrows and splashing of unseen ducks.