By now most of the leaves have given up the fight and let go of their branches. Although they are no longer a fiery orange, the muted blanket of tan, burgundy, and coral pink leaves looks quite beautiful under my maple tree. With multiple heat sources humming throughout the house, I cringe at the thought of the upcoming winter season. I can handle nights in the thirties and days in the fifties. It's when night and day have no distinguishable temperature difference that makes me desperate.
My mood matches the season. It always does in the fall. So many things to say and no words to say them. Thoughts and emotions and memories swirl in my head like the leaves on the ground. Then they seem to settle in my heart and get wet and heavy. There they lie, like leaves in the gutter, waiting to be dug out and dealt with. But who knows when that will happen, or even how it will happen. Sometimes I will single out one of those thoughts, emotions, or memories like a particularly intriguing yellow leaf that begs closer inspection. I'll hold it up to the light and examine its veins and spots, smile at its beauty and melancholy and then drop it back into the pile in my heart.
Things are always changing around here. Life is in constant flux. Sometimes I wish things would slow down. Sometimes I wish they would hurry up. I think too much about things that I have no control over. I busy myself with the things that I do seem to have a tiny semblance of control over. And I pray that my heart finds rest somewhere in between those two places.
This is the pensive nature of this month. My month. November.