Fall’s Mystery

It’s been almost a year since my last blog entry.

I forgive myself. It’s not like I haven’t been writing.

I make lists and post status updates all of the time. I am an email junkie and the author of countless stories which I tell myself; some, I believe deeply and emphatically; others I indulge in unconsciously or for old-times sake, until they’re neither rich in drama nor entertaining in the least, at which point, the story line pretty much falls apart and I must generate a new one.

The fall is like tree sap running in my veins; as the air cools and leaves drop, an internal process starts to take over. The more I observe and feel the changes outside the more deeply I’m drawn inward. Words or thoughts alone have never sufficed to breach the barrier of magic and mystery; to explain the sweetening in the dying, the almost-satiety but for the immutable pull of longing in the stillness.

The fall makes me think of my dad, who lives in Ontario. We used to take walks around the neighbourhood in the fall. Sometimes he’d have gloves on or be holding a cup of coffee that would steam awhile in the night air. His long legs would stride with some purpose, but slower than usual; like he was trying to remember something as he walked, and to do both was a bit distracting. So we’d walk and look around at the houses, and talk about the past year and the coming winter. There was an apparent comfort and need to sum up what was gone and done, and to look ahead and prepare for what may come to be.

But it was more than that. I always felt the closest to my dad in the fall, on these walks, because while we walked and talked, and then didn’t say much at all for a while, in the silence and unasked, unanswered questions, together we touched the Mystery.

To be continued …