Years ago, when majoring in photography was a thing, I realized I had slipped into this space where I had no idea what season it was. I lived in Denver at the time and it's not like the climate is mild there, but somehow I consistently lost track of whether it was winter or summer, spring or fall. It just hardly ever came up, unless I needed to spend a larger that usual chunk of time outside. Which I hardly ever did.
Now that I live in the urbane middle of nowhere (as opposed to the actual middle of nowhere) I feel it. Each space of time, their beginnings and ends. Right now it's all slowing down. Snow is falling seriously for the first time and I've got a fire going. The hat and gloves boxes have come out of the closet and live next to the door now. The garlic has been planted and mulched over.
The irony is that this is supposed to be the busy time of the year for me. Sweater weather, knitting season, There are Christmas decorations hiding behind the Halloween costumes in Target. But that whisper keeps telling me to go deliberately, to wind down, breathe more and just pay attention. It doesn't care that I've got a market on Saturday. Or that I need to get back to my loom. Here's a book, it says. Take a nap, take a hot bath. I'm trying to find a middle path for now, taking advantage of the autopilot of routine to carry me through those times when I get all glassy-eyed otherwise.