Autumn has arrived in Oregon — with it the rain. After months of continuous sunshine, three consecutive days of cold, dreary showers has come as a shock. Isn’t that how it is with life? You have something good and warm and nourishing, its presence secured, its face so familiar you begin to scorn its loyalty, then *poof* it’s gone before you realized what you had? Perhaps you even begin to wish you had savored it longer, been more present, done something different. There’s not much to be done now, however, so you decide to adapt because it’s better than being bulldozed by sadness.
This weather reminds me of Vancouver. The way low hanging clouds engulf mountains and tendrils of smokey fog reach into valleys to caress their depths before curling again towards the sky. After painfully long periods of grey, I like how the sun will peek out for brief seconds, as if to say “hello” and “I’m still here.” I like walking through wet, dripping forests. I like engorged rivers.
I don’t know where my home is again. Sitting at the window overlooking Hope Mountain, I ponder staying here, huddled up for the winter, reading, writing, drawing, living the gospel of Thoreau: loneliness is good for the soul. Peeking back at Austin, it all seems like vanity and distraction, a repulsive thought for a self-righteous puritan who secretly delights in not having looked in the mirror for days, weeks even.
That reminds me, I should probably trim my nose hair.