many bloggers i read seem to be making a return lately, writing again after a long absence. this is the time of year for picking up old threads. late summer mornings slipping away into fall, warm days with a barely detectable chill in the breeze. spring is the time for shiny new things, leafing out, growing; but somehow fall is the season for making things. have we been programmed by all those back-to-school years? is it the visible end of running, laughing in the sun that turns us restless? or are our animal brains telling us the making must begin, a preparation for the survival of winter?

how much of what i write is justification for what i’ve failed to be? melancholic pondering to lend grandeur to my emptiness, a substitute for living. i need a better ratio… thinking and doing, understanding and practicing.

am i being too harsh? again declaring failure? all this time spent understanding myself, making sense of the world… is it not the meaning of my days?

writers line up words to encapsulate pretty little moments in our lives, words that sound like pings of rain, taste like the sweetness of late summer plums, feel like ceramic warmed by a strong brew of tea. we rhapsodize the rain to keep a hold of it.

and when the winds are harsh, the grounds dry, we can wrap the words around ourselves, remember we’ve had those moments, and beat back the fear of emptiness.

Anne said “it is only very foolish folk who talk sense all the time.”

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