This is September

Lo! a ripe sheaf of many golden days
Gleaned by the year in autumn's harvest ways
With here and there, blood-tinted as an ember,
Some crimson poppy of a late delight
Atoning in its splendor for the flight
Of summer blooms and joys—
This is September.
- L. M. Montgomery, "September"

This month is shaping up to be one of the busiest of my entire life. This is laughable because I distinctly remember sitting in my doctor’s office and saying, “If I can just make it through August, everything will slow down.” I should have kept my mouth shut apparently. But then, I would appreciate this poem of Maud’s much less.

I can tell by the bone-chilling nights and leaves blowing across the college walkways that autumn in Pennsylvania will be blustery and damp. At every turn, I am reminded of the effects of the weather on my mood, and I often miss the dry warmth of Colorado. But in a couple of weeks, during peak leaf-peeping season, I know my heart will feel full again.

Living here still feels like an extended daydream. What if, in my early 20s, I moved across the country for the fourth time, bringing nothing but the bare necessities? Some days, my desire to return home is so strong that I fantasize about turning back time. I will rewind to find that I’m in Colorado with my family, eating a PB&J on white bread and getting dropped off at the dance studio at 4 PM.

It’s juvenile—worse than juvenile—to feel viscerally upset that I do not own a time machine. I have a very real impulse to cry.

And yet, I don’t feel unhappy here. In fact, at present, I’m looking forward to a week in eastern Pennsylvania with my family. How does that work? Is it because I have accepted that I will be returning to Colorado? Does the knowledge that they won’t last forever make these days more precious?

Because they do. They feel precious.

Sleeping at Last

After six weeks of tossing and turning and failing to wake up rested, my body finally gave in and relaxed. I have to sleep with the blanket I used during my last visit to my parents’ place. Like a four-year-old.

Moving through adrenal fatigue was like trying to run in a pool—strenuous and futile. It wasn’t until I gave up the struggle and allowed myself to float in the discomfort of Pennsylvania life that everything changed. My exhaustion, anxiety, and annoyance all melted away. One of my roommates told me I seemed lighter, and that’s exactly how I felt. It was like emerging from a chrysalis to find that I was still a caterpillar—no wings yet, but at least I wasn’t dead.

And I think the wings might be coming. God, I hope they’re coming.

I’ve been so busy these last two weeks that existing apart from my desk seems wrong. Who am I without my chronically overflowing inbox and Slack notifications adding up like time bombs? At lunch a few days ago, I finally faced the music: I cannot continue as a one-woman show. Nor should I. When I asked the Universe for more, it heard me. Now, it’s time for me to let it all in.

Crossover

Yesterday, I received a newsletter from my favorite reiki practitioner in Colorado Springs. She recently moved as well (not to Pennsylvania) but has been traveling back to CO for events. In her email, she wrote, “I’ll be home… for my Reiki Master class in Colorado Springs… It still feels like home even though I don’t live there anymore.”

Reading those couple of lines brought me so much peace. As chaotic as this summer has been and in the midst of all these unknowns, my desire to be home has remained unchanged. That, for whatever reason, is often what gets me through.

I have asked. The Universe has answered. And all I have to do is be.

Some days, being means back-to-back deadlines and building my team. Other days, it means reading chapters of a cheesy rom-com between errands. Most days, to feel my best, it means eating a lot of tropical fruit.

And if I’m really lucky—when the apartment is quiet and clean and my notifications are turned off—I will light a candle, read a poem, and breathe.

Photo by Bart Ros on Unsplash