I was fighting it until this morning. After a week of discomfort and tumultuous moodswings (I’m bad with transitions), coupled with infantile foot-stamping (“I don’t want summer to be over!”) the grace descended on me and I spilled out into the cool, damp morning with fuzzy socks to welcome the fall.
It was a slender slice of dream that carried me home. A memory of the magical afternoon I napped above the city in the open window of 610 Beacon St., sun on my face, wrapped in amber and dandelions, with piano music drifting in through the leaded glass. Swimming in a winterocean colored sweater. Hair long, dark and tangled, twirled around me like a mermaid. I dreamed about Eisuke and train bridges. For hours I drifted along in that twilight state, the music mixed in with my dreams and my dreams mixed in with the daylight. I awoke to a cup of green apple tea, a fuzzy scarf, stars in my eyes and tinsel in my hair.
That was ten years ago, the memory etched in my mind like a movie. This morning I opened my new notebook with the autumn ribbon bookmark from VVB that says October, hay rides and pumpkin pie, punctuated with tiny leaves and apples. I wrote about that mystical nap. In my freshly-caffeinated analytical mind – the part of me that sees colors in hexidecimals – I tried to parse that memory, to uncover the formula responsible for its machination. But staring at the neat white pages of my Blueline hardcover A9 journal, I realized I was the formula.
Instant dreamstate; just add girl.
It’s the crap I heap on top of my inherently magical existence that renders Wishville uninhabitable. A theory of holistic healing: don’t add something to an unhealthy state to make it well; see what needs to be removed. I get in my own way more often than I’d like to admit.
I uncovered this realization and instantly began the listmaking – the autumn rituals that make preparing for winter less like readying for war and more like packing for vacation. Mulled cider, pomegranate tea, baking bread in my tiny Parisian checkered tile kitchen. Mounds of velvet blankets, making soup, vanilla and sandalwood candles, new music, tinfoil stars hung from the ceiling. Tiny white lights, colossal honeycrisp apples sliced with cinnamon, a black and white striped scarf. Luxurious hours spent sprawled in a pile of old magazines with an x-acto knife and rubber cement, creating images for people I love. Painting my textured dreams with a fluffy Siamese asleep on my hip. Curled in a swirl of jewel-toned pillows, wrapped in amber and dandelions.
I sat down at my desk at work and several people commented on my appearance. “You must be feeling better.” I called in sick Tuesday because I had projects to tend to; my job is interfering with my work. “You look… happy.” My enormous light box is on full blast, bathing my relieved expression in artificial sunlight. It will suffice for now.
Last night I lie awake in bed, packing for the Rhode Island seashore. But I don’t have to move to Jupiter, FL or Cambridge, MA. I need to stay where I am – stay who I am. Wherever you go, there you are. And I’m pretty good company.