Lingers On

Day ends so quickly; before we know it we’re prostrate once more, hitching the covers over our shoulders. In certain tender moments in the afternoon, when chores and bustling are finished and when the sun tilts gently toward the fall, it is what we engage in that can define us. I used to fall asleep for at least an hour; smeared person hidden under what thin comfort sleep could bring. Then I plunged for a while into painting. Now I chase around a depressed donkey, knit a present, watch some strange supernatural anime; just be quiet.

New energy emerges from a dying sadness. Forceful, determined, pumping etherial iron, running laps of new discovery. Claim a little self-assertiveness, wrap fingers around a little steely grip - tighten up. This little upsurge of strength is need to pry open the doors I’ve slammed as I fumbled down the hidden passageway to my secret dungeon down below. Instruments of my own undoing lie there, piled in disarray, heaped in the untidy order they sprang from my psyche. I do so many things backwardly - the effect and the reason are opposites. People mean a great deal to me, so I shun them. I feel more open and at home as the crowd increases; more willing to share myself, my talent.

November brings the quiet for all such things to come to surface, bobbing on the still dark lake of my being like cold Autumn stars. Words a little slow to form themselves, time a little too short to enjoy the day, evenings a little too long to make the working feel fulfilled. So what remains when busyness must take a back seat? Down in the bottom of the box, hope. It’s that we want which makes us human, it’s what we want which decides what kind, and my confidence is growing that at the end of the day, at the end of the Summer, I’ll want what’s good. That I’ll want Light, and stars, as Night descends, as November lingers on.