Tag Archives: Autumn

Sometimes I Can Fly

It started slowly, the falling. At first I was flying, rising on gentle currents. The higher I went, the better the view. It was amazing. I could see everything.

There is something liberating about seeing the world below from great heights above. No sense of fear whatsoever. Drifting with the breeze.

Clouds

I thought I was drifting. But I wasn’t just drifting. Was I?

I was falling. A knot in the pit of my stomach grew tighter. l fell faster. My insides were screaming. Slow down. Slow up.

I was flying so high that it shouldn’t matter. I couldn’t fall so far. Could I?

Sometimes in dreams I can fly.

In one recurring dream I am running, on a mesa cliff. It looks like the Grand Canyon, but isn’t. For some reason, not fully known to me, I run off the edge and the earth beneath my feet disappears.

I can’t breathe.

The sensation of falling takes my breath away. The rocky cliffs dive to a snaking river below.  Terminal velocity forces air from my lungs. I can’t breathe. I CAN’T BREATHE.

Autumn in American Fork Canyon, Utah.

Sometimes, in this dream, I fly. Air returns to my lungs like a drink of cool water on a hot day. I can feel it all the way down. These are good dreams.

Other times, I fall. This time, I’m falling.

Is it a dream? I’m not entirely sure. To be self aware and asleep is a conundrum I can not quite resolve.

Fall leaves color the forest.

I have heard it said that if you actually crash, or hit the ground in your dreams, you die. The reality of this moment is that the sensation of falling feels like death. Death would be a relief from the falling. To fall forever, fear tying each muscle into knotted searing cramps would be a torment worthy of Dante’s examination.

Fall Leaves.

Yet the ground grows no closer. I open my eyes and see colors exploding in brilliance all around me. Then, one leaf falls, and another, and another and…

…they are gone. The sunset season has ended. Winter’s chill is close. I can feel it coming.

In this dream, I will open my eyes before the last leaf touches earth.

 

Falling Into Winter

The weather in my home town is unseasonably warm. It is as if winter is hiding, just around the corner, afraid to come out.

I’m actually okay with that.

I don’t like to be cold. The worst day when it is hot, is better than the best day when it is cold, speaking specifically of the weather.

No matter how many clothes you put on, winter coats, winter hats, gloves, long underwear, sweaters, down vests, etc. the cold still finds a way in, like needles.  When it is hot, you can always take clothes off, right? You can always drink more water.

Ah yes, water.

It hasn’t rained here in days, maybe weeks. Snow? Haven’t seen any. Weird.

It should be snowing. I should have a sore back from shoveling (no, I never invested in a snow blower). I know we need the water. So, I know we need the winter.

The sun has moved farther south. The days are shorter. But, the temperatures are still warm. I could live with this, for awhile. However most of the leaves have fallen and the bare trees just don’t look quite right, silhouetted against a deep blue sky still warm.

Perhaps winter will come out when autumn can no longer prevent the north wind from frosting the brittle fallen leaves decorating my once green lawn.

Until then, I will turn my face to the sun and hope that perhaps this year, we may skip through the darkest days of winter, without having to dawn snow boots and snow tires.

Come to the Meadow

If you’ve listened to selected shorts on PRI for awhile (http://www.wnyc.org/shows/shorts/), you’ve heard Roger Kellaway’s, “Come to the Meadow.” The music is lyrical, whimsical and evocative. I can see wildflowers and feel the wind in his composition. The music, for me, paints a spring song in the meadow, evergreen and blooming. Yet, when I found myself in The Meadows on a cold November morning, I was captivated by the patterns, shapes and lines of summer grasses, now glowing golden in the glorious morning light. Come to the meadow with me, on a glorious autumn morning. Bring Roger Kellaway, if you can. There are more seasons in the meadow than you might expect.