I love October—my favorite of all the months, and yet she is unpredictable, inconsistent, ornery.
Sometimes she arrives all at once—we wake up to trees of crimson and gold, the smell of burning wood and spiced drinks on the wind, tasty things stewing and baking. Overnight it’s October everywhere; we feel it in our bones. The dead come calling, and it’s Halloween for weeks. The nights are deliciously haunted, and we gather together for wine and whispers and witchy things that remind us of the magic of childhood autumns.
Sometimes October is slow to arrive, just hints of color here and there, the gradual bundling of layers—first a scarf, then a sweater, maybe mittens without fingers. Summer hangs on, and Halloween feels far away, and winter farther still. We look down at our bare feet crunching orange leaves in the grass, our legs in shorts, our hands in mittens. There’s a disconnect, a teasing, a hesitation—is October coming or isn’t she? Sometimes we ignore her, lulled into a false sense of never-ending summer. Sometimes we choose to look for October in unexpected places, we work a little harder, maybe find roads never before taken.
Just over a week to go, and I’m still not sure about this year’s October. Perhaps our perception of October is as much influenced by what’s going on inside of us, as what is happening around us. Maybe that’s why she seems fickle? Maybe October reflects back to us who we are as we head into the cold darkness of winter?
Tell me about your October.
