HOVER

We're hovering.

I can tell it's fall without even looking at the leaves on the trees because the nights come sooner, the air is crisper, and my urge to read with a hot cup of tea and a warm fire burns in me 24/7. It's all I think about.

When can I curl up next? Is it time to retire to the chair yet? Baby, make me some tea, please?

This time of year feels like I'm living in fast forward. Not because I move faster or do more, but because fall is me at 75. I've moved in fast forward to retirement. Afghans, cozy fireplaces, chamomile tea, knitted socks and wool.

I drown in sheepskin.

We're hovering because as cozy as fall is, as much nesting as fall allows, it holds us at the precipice of the abundance that winter offers. In Seattle, winter was a time to shut in and shut down. The rain makes indoors your only playground. In Alaska, winter is the time of snow, snowshoeing, cross-country skiing after work, on weekends, whenever the moment strikes. Snow flurries or sunshine one can take advantage.

What's this you ask? Oh just a sweet snowflake. Brush it off and keep trudging.

The rain of fall is isolating.

Trapping.

I can't walk the dogs today, not in this.

But winter? She opens her arms and welcomes you. Snow feels bright and inviting. To play, to romp, to explore. A big hat, 24 layers, my purple jacket and I'm ready to explore.

Not fall. She's a moody beast who keeps us indoors.

 

So I hover.

I age.

I make more tea and checkout a new book.

Watching the water run down the window pane wondering when it will turn solid. Fluffy. White. Inviting.

Releasing me from this woolen prison.