Leaving the house in this autumn drench, I slip on a slick of wet leaves and do a gasping half-split in the driveway; a tiny windblown safety-drill for some future January outing. Meanwhile Gilligan looks at the sky in flat-eared submission and rushes back to the door, thoughts of squirrel domination secondary.

The day begs us to hunker down, hole up, hide. Eat a second breakfast, maybe. I light candles and lamps and brew coffee. But darkness still gets in, making old wounds tender; Voldemort is on the move. My inner critic swoops down with terrifying maw and death-eats all creativity. I examine my options: I could pump up the volume on spotify and confound the dog with my whip and my nae nae, I could eat a dozen cinnamon donuts and binge watch Netflix, I could find out which Disney Character I am, or Peanutize myself. I decide to sit silently and let the shadows fall with the rain. After all, light gets in at the broken places. This imperfect day; this imperfect me. A pretty perfect pair.

I woke with creaking knees, and downward facing mood. My lawn has apple-pox; spotted with the wounded and bruised I never got around to picking. A musty smell haunts me from some hidden crawl space; mice are looking for housemates and rumor has it I have toast crumbs and empty mason jars.

I have rooms full of warted gourds, and branches bent with orange berries, and tiny pumpkins and pinecones all gathered and captured in vases and bowls like acorns stuffed in a panicked cheek. I feel the need to light scented candles that smell like pie, and stick cloves into something, as if all of this will distract me from this sadness I woke with, let loose by the first scent of wood smoke in the air. What is it I am yearning for? What is this ache?

I woke with a fear of fall, of falling, of falling backward into a Norman Rockwell haze; into a cavernous wish for days gone by. I remind myself that nostalgia is a thief of time and a bit of a liar, too. The deer think the fallen apples are just where they need to be.

Yesterday afternoon on the first day of fall, I took a long walk with my Boston terrier, Gilligan — a short, 3-hour tour one might say. The light the color of butter, the fields yellow and green, a sky full of blue, a tree turning red; a phenomenal sense of gratefulness for the richness of it all. I wanted to stop and sketch it, paint it, tweet it, tumble it, put a soundtrack to it; I kept struggling to hold it all, drink it in, clutch it to me. And then I just let go and moved through it, with it, along side it. I felt a part of it — I could be a cornfield, a milkweed, a cattail, a crow!

An hour ago we took our afternoon walk, and it was nothing like yesterday. Yes, there were purple asters and goldenrod; blue jays and heron’s; turtles and twisted trees; water ripples ringed in sun…but mostly it was like taking a 25 pound bee for a walk. I think Gilligan’s energy must have reflected something deep within me, as he shot off into a million fragmented directions, straining at his tether, trying to free himself, seeking something elusive, desperate to pick up the trail. I returned home with a sore arm, a general sense of relief that it was over, and a dog that managed to roll in something bath-worthy while I was pondering the changing skies.

Some walks are more peaceful than others.
Some moments I know myself.
Some days I feel love, and sometimes I feel lost.

More often than not, I feel god-ness and human-ness, hand in hand. Like this particular pope, perhaps. I have to say, I rather like him. Even if he does wear white after Labor Day.