The Fall

I adore Fall.

It is my favorite season.


Even ugly highways look more beautiful.

But this Fall has been one of those seasons where I can feel the techtonic plates shifting thousands of miles down. Standing in the bathroom to comb my hair, the room tilts suddenly. I try to quickly get my sea legs and steady the objects on the counter. The room levels out eventually.

But I wake up the next morning and start to smell the salty air and earth. This time, the wave comes from a different direction. I am unprepared for it, and everything slides off of the surface revealing something else that I didn't know was there.

I have spent this Fall falling.

When my daughter was an infant, I read books that explained the Moro reflex: how babies will, even in their sleep, suddenly reach with their hands outstretched when they feel the sensation of falling. They also call it the parachute reflex. I feel a bit like that too. There's no way to prevent falling from the tree. And, even if it is in my mind, it is my habit to try to reach, futility, into the air to grab the nothingness.

I'm not sure when I will land. I'm trying to focus on blessings as the sides of the rabbit hole speed past, but my challenge is learning acceptance when things happen that I cannot prevent or repair. I have quit wishing things could be different. But I cannot stop aching for what has been lost, what will be lost, and what I cannot hold in my hands.