And it’s only early autumn, really

There’s a quality to the last few days that has perfectly captured the transition between summer and autumn. It’s that back-to-school feeling, I suppose, of warmth and the dustiness of summer reaching its finale, and mildly-abandoned rooms opening again to life and movement and emotion instead of waiting in situ for something, anything to happen.

The slow decay, the falling off of vitality is happening in very slowly lengthening shadows.

I find I’m ready of this autumn, I think. The last few summers I’ve been particularly forlorn as I’ve watched them leave, with sense that I hadn’t fully appreciated them, hadn’t taken full advantage of them. And while I still feel that way about the summer that’s taking its departure, I’m not quite as sad about it. Autumn is here, autumn! And there is so much to revel in. Crispy leaves, crispy air, the scent of wood fires curling tantalisingly into my nostrils (although that’s just the pizza place downstairs), the slow undressing of the trees, the sudden and delightful show of mushrooms in forgotten corners.

I’m still very tired, getting over whatever viral something-or-other shared with me by a tiny person I love dearly. He’s asleep in his cot and I intend to get some rest while he’s horizontal. But I wanted to write a bit; so here I am, writing. I’d like to write more. And I can. I can write more tomorrow and the tomorrow after that. Even if it’s the same words over and over again, it still feels satisfying to push them out from under my fingertips.

Scary. For no reason at all. Who even cares what I write? (Me, the answer is Me Very Much Me. But I may as well enjoy it, so enjoy it I will. Even if it tips over into self-indulgence. It’s just as nice as cake.)