In the space of three or four days, an unusually late burst of summer turned to weather that’s unmistakably appropriate for autumn—early winter, even. I ripped the tags off my new coat, which I felt ridiculous buying a few weeks ago, when it was uncomfortably hot out, and wore it for the first time on Saturday. While on a walk with my husband this morning, I wished I’d brought a toque and mittens.
I’m not complaining. In truth, I love the change in seasons, the nip in the air a brisk reminder of the coming holidays. I look forward to transforming my apartment into a ridiculously over-the-top shrine to all things Christmas and many things solstice. I get a thrill from the associated planning and anticipation and crafting.
Monday was Canadian Thanksgiving, which I consider to be the earliest it’s OK to openly start preparing for the most wonderful time of the year (though no, I won’t put any decorations up until after Halloween). My husband and I had good friends over on Sunday for a little celebration, and he and I had a makeshift Thanksgiving dinner—we’re not big Thanksgiving people—on the day itself. Despite our not going all out, it was nice to mark the day, albeit quietly.
It goes without saying that I’m truly thankful for how my life is evolving. I won’t list everything and everyone I’m grateful for because I try to count, acknowledge, and name my blessings on a regular basis rather than reserving this practice for a particular date. I will, however, recommit to seeking ways, big and small, in which to strike a balance between giving and receiving. Action, as they say, speaks louder than words, and in this new season both of life and of weather, I’m ready to move.
And to decorate. Halloween’s still a long way off.
De Morbo Sacro: Life and/with Epilepsy 