Autumn

We are deep into the heart of autumn. The days are truncated, darkness creeping in around the edges of the light by 4:30 pm. I take the dog out after her dinner and scan the yard with my flashlight, ensuring that there are no bears to contend with (there was one, once…).

I have been in hibernation mode. I had a bipolar high in the middle of August and am now inhabiting the low that follows. The world seems muffled, my mind is empty, I crave sleep. I sit in front of the woodstove in the evenings, reading and watching the flames. I love the heat it emits, a subtle and deep warmth that seeps into my bones and the bones of the house.

I went swimming last week and ended up sleeping the rest of the day. I meant to go to the mountain for a hike last Friday, but once I was dressed and ready to go I realized I was almost falling down tired. So it was back to bed for me.

I did get a hike in two weeks ago, on trails carpeted with maple leaves, a thick bed of yellow and orange that’s shredded and shifted where people have walked. The deciduous trees are bare now. The ferns are turning brown. The small plant shoots that I first saw coming up in the spring, a hopeful brilliant green, have now turned pale yellow and are wilting as the season deepens.

I try to make a schedule for myself but nothing matters when I need sleep. I have to listen to my body telling me what it needs, and then honour that request. I may plan to go to the mountain twice a week and swimming once a week, but instead I go to the pool once and the mountain once. Some days I make it up by walking the dog up to the end of the road and back. But most days I don’t. Those days my outdoor time is limited to being in the yard. At least it’s something.

The sky is always threatening rain, but we’ve only had 1/3 of the total rainfall we should have for November. So it remains just that: a threat, and not actual rain. I worry about the aquifer. Our well. Will we still have water in the heat of summer? (Update: we’ve had rain for a few days now–maybe November will still have average precipitation.)

While I enjoy the brightness of summer, I also appreciate the hunkering down aspect of winter, as the rain falls and the garden sleeps. I sometimes re-read parts of Katherine May’s Wintering to revel in her interpretation of winter.

Summer feels so far away. When it arrives, we will complain about the 30C temperatures, and wish for rain that never comes from late June to early September. So we must make the most of this damp, dark season while we can, squeeze every last drop of moisture from it and savour the quiet darkness of the evenings, the glow of the fire in the woodstove.

We are coming up to the longest night of the year, the winter solstice in December. From then on the days will become noticeably longer and brighter, minutes at a time. Before we realize it, it will be light enough to take the dog out after dinner without a flashlight.

So let us enjoy these darker, wetter days and not wish for them to pass so quickly. They are an intricate part of our annual cycle, a reminder that the warmth of the woodstove will be replaced by warm weather in no time at all, and we’ll be on our next revolution around the sun.