Even if I had been born in the summer – or named… Becky – fall would still be my favorite. I like sweaters and boots and very few things in life please me as much as vivid orange and red against a blue sky with puffy little scenic clouds.

I prefer the cooler weather. I prefer the more measured pace of life. I FAR prefer the sun coming up at a reasonable hour once DST is banished once more. I find a simple stroll through a leafy trail much more satisfying. I have a theory that part of the reason we like dappled light so much is because it closely mimics the way we perceived light in the womb.

It is also a time when shadow work feels more straightforward. Not easier per se, just… simpler. Somehow sitting in the full light of a sweltering bright day asking my tarot cards what part of me needs healing feels asynchronous, at best. There is something about the turn of the season where the veil is thinning that feels most appropriate to try and see through the dimness – both literal and figurative.

This year the Samhain season takes on more meaning. Until this summer, I have never lost someone to death that I cared deeply about. While I don’t want to contact my mother (she would only be vexed I was trying to reach her) I do find great meaning in dwelling on her memory; In imagining my own future as I age and eventually pass. She was only 20 years older than I am and given how quickly the last 20 years have sped by, I am conscious, perhaps for the first time, of how little time that really is.

So I understand in a new and particular way that I will only see so many more of these seasons, and it is my task to embrace each moment of delight I encounter.

She resumed her work.

It has been on my mind recently, that I used to love this. And so, here I am again. After a considerable interim.

2025 has been… rough.

I had to exit a difficult relationship – twice. Then I had to exit my residence when circumstances hastened a move I thought wouldn’t be coming until Spring of 2026. And perhaps most meaningfully, my mother exited the earth.

All of these things have thrown their own light on a lot of things that were lingering in the shade; forgotten or, at the very least, neglected.

I had talked myself out of being a person with trauma. Convenient, no? At some point in a dimly remembered phase, I just decided not to be hurt anymore. It was perhaps what was best for me at the time, since I was truly struggling to survive in almost every sense of the word. But, as these things will do, they ways in which I was still wounded continued to impact me in subtle and not-so-subtle ways long after I had stopped consciously acknowledging I had done so.

In the face of all the opportunities to grow that 2025 has presented, it occurred to me it might be time to allow myself to feel how I feel. Without judgement or self-recrimination, understanding I was doing the best I could at the time I made the choices that got me to what can only be described as a state of emotional estrangement from myself.

So I have been feeling some things and it is both difficult and simple. Frightening and familiar. Challenging and comforting.

At first, this work more closely resembled picking at emotional scabs and watching in horrified fascination to see how un-healed the wound was underneath. Once I felt I had traumatized myself by doing THAT non-stop for months, I started trying to imagine how to integrate what I had discovered into a new and healthier perspective. I am still in the middle of that work, and suspect I will be for the rest of my life or as long as my courage holds.

kän(t)-stÉr-ˈnā-shÉn

a feeling of surprise, confusion or disappointment

Say what?

I am perfectly accustomed to the notion that things will not always go as I plan. If nothing in life is certain but death and taxes, I will make the claim that disappointment is the death of expectation; the taxation of hope.

I find myself generally able to take this phenomenon in stride. I am familiar with it, as are most folk, and lamenting the fact has never once alleviated its effects. For how we make God laugh when we plan…

Yet at certain times I am especially confused by the way things unfold counter to my expectation. Instances where all indications point to a particular course that simply never manifests.

And I am full-well aware there is no ready answer nor effective tonic. To strive is to risk, to hope is to hazard. These are the toll of possibility, and though the price may seem high at times, still better it is to yield the cost than lay stake instead to complacence.

So, Iâ€ll sip my tea and feel puzzled. When it is gone, I will put my aimless wondering away.

These are the stories I will tell myself until they are true.

noun

1. The act of hesitating; a delay due to uncertainty of mind or fear: His hesitation cost him the championship.
2. A state of doubt or uncertainty.
3. A halting or faltering in speech.

Which Way When

I donâ€t generally suffer from indecision. Even if my choices arenâ€t always wise, I make them with gusto. It is remarkable then, when I feel unable to proceed apace with a clear notion of what my chosen course should be. It is remarkable, now.

I am feeling well. I have for days now. It has literally been more than half a year since that was true. When the character of my flares first changed from being a difficult few days each month to a near-constant circumstance of life, so did my attitude about my illness. Where once there had been an unwarranted assurance that I had rounded a corner and was surely free of a recurrence of such intense symptoms, there instead lingered a conviction that I would never again feel hale.

Post diagnosis I experienced a resurgence of optimism that having identified positively what was actually wrong it would be only a matter of taking appropriate action to make everything right.  Nearly two months later, no substantial change in my condition had begun to erode my confidence in that supposition.

About the middle of last week, I started to feel notably less unwell. By Saturday my guts had reached a degree of quiescence not experienced in months. It has persisted and is still the case. At this pass, I have no clear opinion about what might have provided me with this respite.

Notable is the addition of a new piece to my regimen at the beginning of last week based on some inductive reasoning and research about the mechanisms of my disease. Itâ€s a minor change, easy to maintain along with other things I have been doing for a long time that while not curative, are certainly useful and help me feel better overall. Considering this, any effects should persist as long as I continue the routine.

It is also true that some of the medications I am taking for my condition take some time to reach critical mass in the system and achieve efficacy. Itâ€s entirely possible they are finally asserting their influence and the results will also be ongoing as a result.

Yet I am also forced to acknowledge that occasionally, I just spontaneously feel better for no apparent reason. This is of course the most depressing possibility as I have no control over, ability to predict, or capacity to produce this result.

That realization has left me with a bit of an emotional hangover and an appreciable residue over any part of my life where might linger uncertainty. Instances in which I might not have all the information suddenly loom and cause disquiet. Circumstances that might otherwise barely capture my notice take on huge and ominous import.

It is as though the all the physical distress of the long lead up to now grew to occupy space suddenly come vacant. To fill the yawning void, in rush uncertainty, worry, and their fickle sister doubt. I think it is now my task to usher them out and introduce patience, faith, and assurance that whatever may pass I am capable of facing it bravely; even if I require a measured pause, before.

There are lots of perfectly valid reasons this could be so:

1. Oscar has been less-than-totally quiescent. The grumbling and churning has woken me several times in the last few days.
2. I have another, newly discovered and utterly revolting health problem rearing its head.
3. In part because of items 1 & 2 I am not getting even my customary level of not enough sleep.
4. I am in the final stages of tapering off the steroids I have been taking for over three months and the hormonal shift is taking a toll in the form of constant headaches, joint pain, fatigue, and general malaise.
5. Louise (my remaining ovary) is doing her monthly song and dance.
6. I have been spending a greater than usual amount of time alone.

And, if I am completely honest, I cannot discount the fundamental, embarrassing, and irresistible truth that itâ€s been just long enough since I got laid that all of this is much more pressing thereby. So far, Iâ€ve managed to avoid taking any hasty measures to remedy this*, but I know that feeling lonesome is amplified because of it and that my resolve to make careful choices with long-term potential in mind seems less important by the day. Usually, I try to distract myself with affection from other sources. While less potent, it certainly helps take the edge off.

Add to that the inherent summertime challenge. People are busy; there are so many options it can be difficult to get on the schedule. Since I am also contending with Oscar and Louise, it can be hard to plan time with people who might offer a different kind of company than my body can afford. Itâ€s also the case that in an effort not to languish in my illness or recurrent bouts of self-pity and take advantage of what has been very favorable weather for a variety of adventures, I have tried to keep busy with things I enjoy. By and large, the hiking, running, camping and general larking about has been very good for me. However, the fact is I have been doing all of this by myself.

Cast in the best possible light, the idea is that I shouldnâ€t feel the need to wait around for someone else to come along and validate my plans. And while I can and do often have a perfectly lovely time on my own, I think Iâ€ve fallen into the habit of assuming I must do everything alone. I can hardly recall the last time it occurred to me to ask someone else if theyâ€d like to join me on an impromptu beach trip, hike, run or any other activity I employ to keep myself entertained.

In a less favorable light, I acknowledge my tendency to isolate myself when I am in pain; physical or emotional. I have tried to make a concerted effort to reach out and ask for help and support, and whenever I do, I receive it from multiple quarters and with gratifying speed and enthusiasm. The trap, of course, is that the more I need to reach out, the less inclined I am to do so. The more overwhelmed I feel the more I want to run away toward the horizon with the sappiest music I can find** and sing at the top of my voice while sobbing, or crawl into bed at 2:45 p.m. and not get back out until I next have to present myself at my job.

This doesnâ€t have a ready solution, in the sense that the protocol to remedy things is less than totally straightforward. I think too, that occasionally doing any of this is fine. It becomes troubling only after I notice myself tilting into a pattern where the only person I see outside the office for days on end is my equally hermit-like housemate as we pass each other in the kitchen executing a run for snacks to take back to our respective ends of the house.

So. What remedies? Other people, rest, hugs and kisses. Guess itâ€s time to get my prescription filled***.

* Really, shirtless selfies arenâ€t that bad, right?

**Customarily not reggae.

***Thatâ€s what she said.

noun

1. A variety of magnetite that possesses magnetic polarity and attracts iron.
2. A piece of this serving as a magnet.
3. Something that attracts strongly.

The landscape – both within and without – is now so different from any ever before seen it is almost as though I have been transported to a new and unknown place whilst asleep.

A friend of mine once said to me, “Falling in love is like reaching into a bag of mixed candy. Everything you pull out is sweet in its own way, but no two pieces are ever the same.” This time it feels like I reached into the bag and pulled out a confection as-yet-unnamable but lovelier and more delightful than I had even imagined possible.

In the last week I have been confronted with the limits of my own beliefs, sighted the horizons of what I thought possible, and swept past both in a manner so compelling I know I will be forever changed by the experience. Outcomes being as unknowable as ever still take on the character of foregone conclusions.

Through it all, drawn irresistibly forward and on, when it is so tempting to submit to the gravity working on my heart, I admonish myself to breathe, to pause, and to dream that when I wake to this reality again, it is all the sweeter thereby.  

Yet despite the fact that I am undeniably happier, in better physical condition (recent spate of ailments notwithstanding) and closer to where I want to be than ever, I cannot help but dwell on the realization that the last time I lay in this bed, it was with someone I was falling rapidly and unwisely in love with. How though I do not want him back, and never have since I sent him away almost six months ago, I still miss him in ways I wish I did not. 

Wise people assure me that it is not so much him I miss as simply having a lover. I believe they’re right. That his significance, though real, is primarily situated in his being the most recent, rather than the most important. I can say with surety, that is true. For, though I loved him very much, there were always things that felt disconnected and I never fully trusted him or the situation.

Yet as I approach the full measure of time since I ended the relationship now matching the amount of time we were even together, I want the scales to tip away from thinking about him everyday. From things I objectively know are ordinary and unremarkable still feeling poignant and of import.

When I compare my life to a year ago, things are better in every particular. The only thing missing is a dangerous headlong tumble into the arms of someone who wasn’t really interested in catching me. As ecstatic as that feeling is, even that wasn’t better, just more exciting. I am far happier without him; I just want my heart to come around the curve, catch up with me, and notice.

1. doubtfulness or uncertainty of meaning or intention: to speak with ambiguity; an ambiguity of manner.

2. an unclear, indefinite, or equivocal word, expression, meaning, etc.: a contract free of ambiguities; the ambiguities of modern poetry.

Gaaaaaah! My eyes!!!

As I’ve said before, I prefer it when things are explicit. When I understand without question what is happening or being communicated, I feel at ease; even if the outcome isn’t what I was hoping, at least I know it’s time to start mourning that fact.

Remove that surety and I spend an inordinate amount of energy trying to run down all of the iterations of the possible, probable, and likely. I uselessly attempt to imagine this near infinite variety of scenarios until I am exhausted and all but batshit crazy.

Needless to say, I am not a fan.

Rationally, I know that nothing is certain; no outcome guaranteed. I understand that even employing the most particular language to convey very specific intent does not ensure such results will occur. More, I understand that chaos is the rule of law. That spending time trying to intellectualize entropy is useless, exhausting, and like to make someone all but batshit crazy.

Ahem.

So, I have decided that instead of continuing my quest toward forcefully enacting universally explicit interpersonal communication, I’m going to try and practice sitting with ambiguity. To turn inward and listen to the panicked overwrought voice and simply hear what it says. Once I’ve heard it, to subject its assertions to reasonable scrutiny, and then accept or reject each premise on its merits. Or more likely, just sit there knowing that feelings aren’t usually that cooperative to this kind of treatment; that it’s okay to feel sad, uneasy, worried, or uncomfortable if that is the reaction I am having at the moment.

Of course, I’ll probably have to tell myself this explicitly a few times before it sinks in…

 

 

verb (used without object)

1. to repeat something insistently or redundantly: to perseverate in reminding children of their responsibilities.

It has been years. Near twice as long as we knew one another. There is nothing to justify the lingering regret and persistent longing.

Only that it seemed, at the time, to be everything I wanted. Only that I believed something magical had occurred. Only that I had never – and still have not – known anyone so utterly beautiful and wholly irresistible. Only that for a time, at least, he claimed to love me. Only that it seemed impossible.

And, after all, it was.

That is what I really can’t get over. How foolish, credulous, and faithful I was on the very slimmest provocation. How by fulfilling the archetype and being well beyond my grasp, I was dazzled to ignore all the ways it truly was.

Now, my eyes wide, I see nothing to lure such willful blindness. No temptation to ignore the wise whispered warning inside me. Nothing to overwhelm my senses and thereby, my sense.

I am so safe.
And disappointed.
Dwelling upon the gorgeous, decrepit, memory of a dream.