This is my favorite time of the year and my worst time of the year (for maternal reasons).
I like the dark, cozy mood of fall.
Autumn leaves, pumpkin everything and spices.
I love boots and sweaters.
I have been struggling to make my own pumpkin spice drinks. It doesn't taste like the ones you buy in the cafes, but then again, those aren't made of pumpkins (just spices).
My mood goes up and then goes down.
I sleep on it. I wake up and think on it. Consider it. Fodder it. Entertain it. Sustain it. Dismiss it. Then I sleep on it. Dream on it. Inspired by it, I wake up. And I linger on it, tinker it, cuddle it, and nurture it ... my heart's full of it.
And the days drift, and I lose it. Then I regain it, pulled from a coil of a dream of it. Then I desire it. I repeat it. And I recycle it. and praise it. And I go on to shape it, imagine it, but never fully grasping it.
I owe it, a birth into existence; hence the persistence. I'll never grow it, and I know it, but I put all my hopes on it ... until the day I die.
I am still learning how not to expend myself.
The last few days have been stressful --domestic problems. Family. Drama. Home renovations, on top of all my editing, critiquing and anxiety issues.
I am trying to sleep, listening to my body, wrestling with my desire to over-indulge in caffeine. But when the body says rest, there's nothing else to do.
These days I desire only to sleep, dream and sleep no more. Best summarized in these Shakespeare words, “To die, to sleep—No more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep. ... To sleep, perchance to dream”.-Hamlet