Monday, August 28, 2000

 

1:43 a.m. It is no secret that the light has changed and the deep, rich sun of summer is slanted now, and skimpier. A certain moment has passed and a certain lushness is behind us and it's hard to not look back.

Has summer ever been long enough? I hardly think so.

I took this picture of roses, true and faded, home with me only yesterday. Another weekend has sped past, leaving nothing more than a few images in its wake. I wish I weren't so nostalgic for the day just passed. I envy those people who love the autumn and the winter, the crisp and the cool. I also envy those people who don't play favorites.

Every season is special and I'm going to try, again, to enjoy this new one on the other side of this last week of summer. Shorter days, longer nights, woolly socks, homemade soup. Nope. That doesn't do it for me. Never has.

Plus, I always get lumpy when the weather turns nippy. This year, I'm really going to try, again, to stop my inevitable hibernating tendencies. This year, I'm going to try to exercise as a means of keeping warm, instead of eating. Not enough exercise to require a mat or a sweatband, but just enough to warm my extremities.

That's the noble plan I'm making, here on August 28th, while I still have my wits.

I also plan on really cleaning the entire house. I spent some time this morning in the one room I use very rarely, but which also happens to be one of the nicest rooms in the house. I'm turning my mornings over, completely, to trying to get a new book underway, and I'm also trying to not grab the vacuum and a scrub brush until I've gotten several hours of writing completed.

Scrubbing is easier. On every single level, it's easier.

But, it won't hold back the seasons. The writing, however, will. Plus, it will turn back the clock, erase my past mistakes, and put a youthful blush on that poor faded rose. Powerful stuff, words are. Stronger than dirt, more forgiving than twilight.

I pray they're still waiting there for me tomorrow.