Remembering the Exact Color and Design

In a former life - the one without Very Small People - I used to look forward to the start of Daylight Saving Time, in spite of the fact that it meant I couldn't deny the approach of winter any longer (much as I would like to). It inevitably fell on the same night as our annual Hallowe'en Extravaganza, so we gained both an hour of extra partying and an hour of extra sleep. These days, especially with little V., there's no such thing as an extra hour of sleep, ever. Naturally this year, both girls' schedules were all out of whack and both woke up extra, extra early the day the clocks were turned back. Rather than wallow in my sleep-deprived-misery, I decided to seize the moment. As I looked out the dining room sliding door windows to the mountain ridge in the distance, I could tell that it was going to be an absolutely glorious sunrise that morning. Hearing through the baby monitor that Z. was already awake, I ran to her room and excitedly said, "Come quick! I want to show you something COOL!" That sort of promise, even if it's made over something we adults would find small or silly, always motivates her in surprising ways. So we both went dashing downstairs to the dining room and I pointed out at the sunrise, which was just as spectacular as I thought it was going to be. The skies were the most intense shade of crimson-red, light shining through filmy clouds over the tops of trees just coming into their most colorful autumn hues. We stood there together at the glass, just watching and admiring. Z. even stood still for longer than usual.

Even a week later, she is still talking about that sunrise. I feel blessed not just to have shared it with her, but that she has the capacity to appreciate such small, beautiful moments in this world.

A Breeze Tentatively Comes from Somewhere

Reflecting on this seasonal ending, so close that I hold it carefully in the crook of my arm, tending it, willing it to remain, constant and steadfast. My friend E., who is from eastern Washington state, told me that when he was a little boy, he took the train, alone, to the East Coast to visit relatives. It was summer, and his strongest memory of the trip was that he saw fireflies for the very first time (fireflies are perhaps the one thing in the natural world I miss most when I live out west). He was so enchanted that he, like most children do, collected as many as he could in an empty jelly jar, holes poked carefully in the lid. He planned to release them in his own natural environment, so that each summer he would have fireflies all through the summertime. But the natural world is good about knowing what belongs and what doesn't. And the fireflies did not survive the several-day journey. I believe he still hasn't fully recovered from that loss. Nor will I, from the loss of this season of warmth. However temporary.

Reflecting on metaphorical endings. I was reminded recently that in many belief systems, September is considered a beginning, a new year to replace the old. A time when we are asked to reconsider our lives and Selves, to consider what belongs and what no longer fits. In January, the more familiar and traditional beginning, both our spirits and the world are exhausted, spent, filled with darkness and cold. How much more lovely and practical then, to make changes and revisions when there is still some lingering strength, some hint of Light.

Today, a murmured prayer to the Goddess of That Which Is No Longer Useful. to make the right choices.