Fall is a hard season for me.
I love warm weather so Fall means Summer is over. I plan for and eagerly anticipate it for more than 7 months. Once it arrives, I relish its every minute and strive to shake the deep foreboding that constantly reminds me it’s slipping away.
Fortunately Fall is fabulously stunning with its opulent foliage colors; Canada Geese deafeningly landing in and taking off from nearby ponds; and heavenly smells of delicious flavors. So raw, so lavish.
I thoroughly enjoy composing ideas into writing. For me writing is frequently like an out of body experience. When a grand thought hits me, I feel transported, borne on mighty unseen wings. It’s much like baking: trolling for ideas, choosing the hallowed one, assembling ingredients, putting them together, sitting on my hands while amazing smells waft through the air, pulling it out of the oven at just the right time, and bedecking it. That is glory!
This past Summer, I determined to write about another reason I dread Fall. 2 of my 3 deceased immediate family members passed away in the Fall. 2 of the 3 have October birthdays. Sadly, I’m yet to write a proper tribute to any of them. Their tributes have been percolating in my brain for years. They just won’t submit and order themselves in a sensible way. Not only do I feel thus indebted to my loved ones, but I feel I am failing them and myself. I get angry at myself when another birthday or anniversary rolls around – “It’s been well over 7 months,” I chide myself. It’s unreasonable but it feels akin to not taking care of their remains. Unfinished business – year after year. I ask ridiculous un-answerable questions like, “What’s wrong with you? Isn’t this important?”
Every once in a while, I pull something out of the oven and it’s a flop. A disappointing and frustrating flop. That’s what those tributes have been. It breaks my heart and literally makes me cry. I want to slam my laptop shut and throw it across the room as I realize that I can write about cows and peanuts and gardening in ways that make me feel like I’m soaring over mountaintops, yet I can’t write about mum, Michael, or Irene. It compounds my grief.
Is it a mere cop out to think that some things are best left unwritten…?