Although I've mentally been in the #fallvibes since August, the autumnal equinox passed last Sunday without my noticing. I am aware of is the diminishing evening light and a slightly confused body given the ambient temperature has stayed warm and muggy.
Fall thus marks the annual transition from Summer Anna to Winter Anna, which are, scientifically speaking, two distinct species. One last bike ride this weekend and then it is stored away til spring. The kayak is also snug. Time instead for the running shoes to come back out. And the books. Oh, the piles and piles of books that have accumulated since spring. Now is the winter of our reading content. . . . But also warding off the malaise and lethargy that comes with long, cold nights.
There is absolutely a split of personality here. Which is why, when picking up a breakfast order at the best cafe in Maryland (Baltimore Coffee & Tea), I was struck at the two bags I was handed: Anna Plain and Anna Everything. This perfectly captures Winter Anna (Anna Plain) and Summer Anna (Anna Everything). I loved it.
One other thing: have you ever had the reading experience where you come across something that completely and perfectly describes the way you feel in that instant? This happened to me while reading the beautiful poem The Dahlias by Didi Jackson, published in The New Yorker issue September 16, 2024:
The Dahlias by Didi Jackson
By now the fields are overgrown,
most ironweed and parsnip have turned black,
even the closed cabinet doors of milkweed pods
have burst open, spilling their shucked silk
into the day. I wear a coat
and remember August, those nights
filled with moths that like fireworks
put on a show at our window,
circled the lights like monks in meditation.
At every new cycle, I miss the one
now gone. I am never happy and have
no excuse not to love the dying
season, the growing season, the season of sleep.
That is to say, to love it while it is
happening. But what of the fall dahlias
that like bodiced planets float above
their roots and leaves? Surely they contain all
the colors of our universe. They must love
the cooler days, the beginning
of a time for rest, less forced display.
Take it easy I will say. But the wind
has something else in mind.
They might perform a roundelay
or the danse macabre. In time
we all will be bones, our eyeholes hallowed
and our skeletons clattering like chimes.
It's the part "At every new cycle, I miss the one now gone" that gets me. Glad I'm not the only one.
And just to round it out, here's a photo from my recent trip to Nebraska, land of straight, long highways, Menards, Phillips 66 gas stations, corn, and big skies. It proved itself to be beautiful again and again.
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