The last of my vacation time has been spent and the sky grows cloudy here. Even though the calendar would disagree, it's officially fall.
Every year about this time I get nostalgic for the things I remember we did when I grew up here: the apple harvest in Brunswick at Mapleside Farms, the fall foliage festival, hayrides and hot caramel cider. My roots are here- this is what I know.
Fall is my favorite season, but it's also a time for reflection. As my birthday approaches, I watch the world around me start to change, the earth pulsing with a last flash of color before the decay of winter sets in. It makes me think about aging, how fleeting and cyclical all of time is, how I should enjoy it daily since it doesn't last.
In a few weeks I am making a trip to PA with my dad so we can scatter my grandmother's ashes in her hometown. I've never been there before and am sad that we are going for this purpose, but at the same time, I am eager to see what it is like there and where she came from. It is really strange, but the more I do for myself, the more connected I feel to her. Each time I make bread by hand or cook from scratch, it feels like she is a little bit closer. It seems to work that way with my dad too. Every time I plant something, I know he approves and it gives us something in common. My in-laws were here this week and we connected too, over food.
Bless this little old lady that used to live here. I am indebted a bit to her for having her home to share with my family and draw me closer to where I come from. This house keeps pulling me closer to who I am, giving me a purpose, and making me stop and reflect on what I want to share with my family and the world. Right now, it's a warm wool sweater and some cider, but hopefully soon it will be my voice in my writing too.