Ordinary time

After the highs and lows of last week and weekend, today I’m looking forward to a return to ordinary time.

Tuesdays are busy with both teaching and tutoring, but I’ve already prepared today’s classes and tomorrow’s announcements. I have papers to grade–during the semester, I always have papers to grade–but I know everything will get done in due time. It always does.

The wisdom of both age and experience is this: the water always settles, no matter how big the splash. You think your life can’t possibly continue after death, heartbreak, or other upset–with each loss, you think this is the one that will flatten you for good–but somehow, inexplicably, you get up, again. You continue with the mundane routines and rituals. You get dressed, go to work, get groceries, and do both the dishes and the laundry. Like it or not, the world will continue without the ones you’ve lost, and the world will continue without you, too.

We find solace and healing–we find our footing, literally–by continuing to put one foot in front of the other. Weeping may last a night–or for the length of your morning commute, if you’re prone to crying in cars–but rejoicing will come in the morning. The earth never ceases to turn, and we either keep moving, too, or we get left behind.

Life is incredibly resilient: every year, plants rise from the dead in spring, and so do our hopes and spirits. Even as we lie on the floor, collapsed under the weight of accumulated despair, there is something within us that pops up, buoyant, ready to right our psychic ship. After the excitement of accomplishment and the tragedy of loss, there is something within us that yearns to return to ordinary time.

 

My favorite season is Now

It’s an irony I’ve long noted. My favorite season is also a time of year I’m especially busy. September has flown by, with Fall semester starting at the beginning of the month and the past few weeks devoted to settling into a new school year, new students, new routines.

I love autumn because the days turn brisk and the afternoon light turns golden. The changing foliage is a bonus: it’s the low-angled light itself that I love, as it tricks every object it touches with glint and glory. In September, the days grow shorter, making me increasingly mindful of every last minute of sunlight. By November, the landscape will gleam like beaten bronze, but right now everything is gilt and golden, precious and precise.

In late September, the trees are laden with fruit, overladen with abundance. This year’s crop of acorns is percussive, falling from the trees with the urgent alacrity of a child’s pellet gun. How many times have I been startled on my way to or from our backyard dog-pen by the sound of acorns crashing through leaves and cracking on the pavement below as if cast off intentionally by short-tempered trees.

Thoreau said “Our lives are frittered away with detail.” Oh, Henry, you don’t know the start of it. This past month has been frittered away with class prep, due-date juggling, and so many student papers. Always, perpetually, there is so much to do, and so little done, while the whole earth keeps turning, unfazed.

 

Fruitful

Autumn is my favorite season, and November is my favorite month. Whereas September and October are bright and brilliant, November is gray and messy, with fruit ripening to mush and leaves descending into decay.

 

The morning after

Last night felt almost like the Before Times, with herds of children roaming the streets, in some cases accompanied by attentive and even costumed parents, and in other cases roaming free and unfettered by adult supervision. This morning, the sidewalks are littered with stray candy wrappers, and lawns boast the crumpled remains of inflatable ghosts and monsters, ready to go into hibernation for another year.