Journal 10.23.24

The autumn leaves are suddenly unmistakable. Last week I thought the peak couldn’t be just there at the end of October. Everything was green. Now I’m wondering what I need to do this year to enjoy it instead of being sad that it will soon be over… and I’ve stopped writing. What more can be said? I look for guidance and there within arm’s reach wedged between the Transcendentalists and Joy Harjo I find the uneaten fruits crumbling damply in the shadows* yes yes Mary Oliver who among us wouldn’t reach for you in the dark? When winter is on her nipping way? Remember what I’ve just scribbled: I’m wondering what I need to do this year to enjoy the peak instead of being sad that it will soon be over. And Mary answers without hesitation: I try to remember when time’s measure painfully chafes, for instance when Autumn flares out at last, boisterous and like us longing to stay—how everything lives, shifting from one bright vision to another forever in these momentary pastures.*

     And what will be my next bright vision? It lurks beneath the polished steel of winter bay. It’s nearly time for collecting things I’ve found. Like driftwood and thoughts. And receipts: catfish “rinds” made from its eyes. Yes that is the type of trash I prefer when attempting to alchemize treasure… what draws me to eat when bowed head saunters over hardened pasture. But enough already with this ink in dainty hue. There’s much work to do…

*Fall Song, Mary Oliver