I love transition seasons. I love the unexpected downpours, the glaringly bright sunlight that follows, the rainbows, the way the whole world looks shiny and new, over and over. I love the nostalgia, the way the crisp air seems to sharpen everything, even my memories.
I love the impossible blue-sky days, every time maybe the last for the season.
I love that every day is different, the world keeping me on my toes.
And as far as falls go, this fall with its dry days and unprecedented sunshine has been spectacular. Luckily, my job lets me be outside a lot, because it’s been really, really (really) hard to stay in.
Every year when I think about impending winter, when I look at my full-fingered, bulky gloves, when I think about having to pack my rain pants and booties and jacket with me all the time, when I bemoan the constant drive-train cleaning in my future, I wonder how I got through it last year.
But then I remember. I’m seduced into it by days like this:
And even misty, mysterious days like this:
And pretty soon, I’ve slipped into the middle of winter without even realizing it. The days are darker, the world is colder, I spend more time being wet, but it turns out that it’s okay. Fall’s loveliness got me there, spring’s similar loveliness will get me out, and in the meantime, I will breathe deep of the watery air, blow my breath out around me in puffy little swirls, and be so, so happy to be alive and in the world.
I fricken love my bike.