Welcome, October. Or Not.

It's 90 degrees on this October 1st and the shadows are long and low across the orchard, even at early afternoon.

Low shadows on an October afternoon.

There is a weirdness to this day that I can’t convey. Windy and warm and lonely. I didn’t expect to spend the day alone. To date, my 50th birthday in 2018 had been my worst. By 11 this morning my 55th was well on track to shatter that record.

I slept alone and woke up to an empty house. The cats are good company. As are the cosmos.

Cosmos backlit by the afternoon sun.

Caspurr was a good sport today, even when I sprinkled leaves on him.

The wind is not. I am not.

I have Kwik Trip pizza for lunch instead of steak on the grill.

I could have gone

swimming today which has always been a dream of mind. But I drove 12 miles from the house and collapsed into a crying puddle of self-pity, disappointment, and a tabasco-sized dash of anger.

It’s been a long summer and evidently it isn’t over yet. More heat. More wind. More crises to navigate. And I’m tired. I needed love today. Not loneliness. I’m having flashbacks to *** leaving. To **** leaving. To filling the hours alone in my father’s house in Texas at 16-years-old. Today should have been spectacular. Not terrifying.

I’m waiting now for bedtime. At dark, I’ll spend time with Henry, Orville and either Thor or The Batman. The days are short now and there is darkness in the distance.

I’ve learned I don’t write when I’m happy. I should. But happy doesn’t require words. It’s just a state of being. Being angry is a waste of being, but I am not ready to let go.

We have three birdbaths in the yard. But the birds prefer to visit a bowl full of water on the deck railing,

We put a few rocks inside so the bees can drink.

A young chickadee dropped by this afternoon, stayed a moment contemplating my presence on the deck mid-afternoon with a computer on my lap.

Yes, I know it's not a chickadee but I liked the quote.

A head tilt. A questioning chirp. I’m not exactly sure what it is questioning, but I suspect it’s my self-pity. If it could speak, I imagine it would say;

Get a grip, woman.

Your wings aren’t broken.

You’re in a cage of your own making.

The wind is strong out of the south.

Jump that current.

Ride that wave.

Be brave.

I hear you, my young chickadee muse. I hear you.

Gonna get up now and refill that bowl.