Today I was looking up at the trees, drawn by my favorite sign of change. It's not the bright oranges, deep reds, and vivid yellows. It's seeing the bright green fade into light green, into yellow, into orange, all on one tree. The change of seasons seems to happen without us looking but I, I like to catch it in the act. I feel like I'm invading its privacy, peeking through the crack of a closed door. Change is such an intimate thing.
I pulled out my cell phone to try to capture it and immediately felt disappointed. Not only did I not have my digital SLR, my "real" camera, with me, but it never even crossed my mind to bring it to the park today. I've brushed it off with the excuse of it being too bulky and heavy, and my cell phone takes nice enough pictures. But this is a symptom of a deeper problem. It's convenient, and making things quicker and easier has trumped the things that fulfill me, like photography. Somewhere along the way, in the mess of this past year, I've lost a little bit of myself.
Which brings me to writing tonight. Hello, again. Anybody would look at our year of sorrows and struggles and understand why I haven't posted very much lately. But in addition to our stresses, I've been keeping myself too busy, and stopping to look at the leaves today has reminded me that watching Netflix reruns late at night is not the only form of self-care that restores me.
We are approaching the 1-year anniversary of my mother-in-law's death, and I find myself more fragile, missing her more acutely, longing for connectedness with her. Looking for her to show up in the world she doesn't live in anymore. I haven't been keeping busy to avoid processing this past year, but I need to create space now to be where I'm at. Pick up my camera. Play my Grandmother's piano. Write. And allow the season to change me along with the leaves, one shade at a time.
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