There is something very comforting about a chilly grey fall afternoon, all cozy inside with dinner cooking and smelling all wonderful (in this case, pot roast) and nothing absolutely to do but nap intermittently and read. Particularly if it's my parents house and I'm looking at a week off work. It makes me nostalgic for those long Sunday afternoons of childhood & adolesence. As a grown up, my Sundays are usually filled with errands and housework and sometimes even work. Usually, it's the only day I'm not at the library or in the studio. But here, outside of some emails to send, I'm obligation free and it feels incredibly nice. Nicer to be an adult and revel in these things (rather than a cranky teenager, I guess, who felt like I was always at war with something (my mother, my body, my own identity).
It feels more like autumn here, even, moreso than the city. The lake always has a slowing effect on seasons, whatever they are --warmer in the cold weather, cooler in the heat--) Here it is cold enough to crank up the heat and very, very dark at night. I usually don't get home this time of year until Thanksgiving, so sometimes I miss the real thick of fall entirely. By then, it's verging on winter and the trees already leafless. But now, some are just turning and others piled on the ground.
Next week, I'll be back in the middle of the storm and adrift in projects and editing and chapbooks to make, but this week, it's quiet...
