Columnists

A distraction to what ails us is never the cure

The calendar tells me it’s Sept. 22. It’s the first day of autumn, and despite the disjointed trail of days 2020 has been, I’ve found time keeps cycling. There is a slight tinge of color in the leaves that gently billow in the woods behind my house. They only know to unfurl and grow, just in time to brilliantly burn out and fall to the ground. I’m still buying sweet onions and bright, hot peppers at my local farm market and am savoring each day as it passes.

We’re known for our beautiful foliage here, and I can’t help but add fall is the ultimate season for me. I was born in October, the 10th month. Did you know October used to be the eighth month in the Roman calendar before they added January and February? Octo is eight: octopus, octuplets, octagon. The Saxons called the month Wintirfyllith (which is so Game-of-Thrones-esque I quiver) because it had the first full moon of the winter season.

I’m not a hay-bale-corn-shock decorator, and you won’t find any cutesy scarecrows on my door. I much prefer to stack old books with spooky stories in a pile and set a Dia de los Muertos skeleton beside it that I brought back from Mexico. I like twiggy wreaths and deep plum tablecloths thrown over my table and dark, mysterious scents burning in my candles. The 10th month is earthy chill and fires burning on a cool evening, spine-tingling stories told by candlelight and thrilling rides down back roads, tires crunching over fallen leaves.

Every time the autumnal equinox rolls around, my brain starts thrumming with scraps of ideas I keep in my notes — dreams I’ve had, unexplainable impressions, words that resonate — that feed my essay-telling book-writing soul. This year there’s been more than I know what to do with, so I keep writing them down. I know you’re waiting on the sequel to the book I released, but the tug is strong to allow my mind to thread the needle in and through the fragments in my notes. Who says I can’t release the sequel and my long-anticipated delve into the mysterious realms of mystery writing?

We have a wood floor in our kitchen. It’s nothing fancy, just long pine planks my husband installed one by one, then stained and varnished. When I walk out of our bedroom and into the kitchen, I can tell if it’s chilly by stepping on that floor. The day that happens, I pull out my favorite cardigan.

I’m not talking about the nice cardigans we wear with cute flats and a flannel shirt for running errands. I’m talking about the ratty one, the comfy one, the one you don’t wear anywhere else. Mine is rust-colored and hugs me like my mom would after not seeing me for a while. I’m wearing it right now as I look out on a still-green backyard landscape, but the chill of the wood floor in my kitchen told me I’d be wearing it for most of the day.

The wood floor never fails me, just like my cardigan doesn’t. There’s more nuance to autumn than just leaves clinging to a tree.

Underneath the thrum of pumpkin-laden displays and jewel-toned mums in their plastic containers, I find a string that, if pulled, ushers in an end, a small death as the earth readies herself to be tucked in for winter, a people being tucked in for survival.

This year began as a middling winter, never quite cold enough for the right length of time to allow a hibernation the soul demands. Instead, we hibernated in spring and summer, the world burning fever bright, and looked forward to fall with a desperate need for a forgetful release that never truly came. I wrap my rust-colored cardigan a little tighter around myself, wanting to wrap it around the world, our country. Old comforts and soothing rhythms allow for distraction but never the cure.

Melissa Kay Herrera is a columnist and author. You can find her published novel on Amazon at www.tinyurl.com/Tonolives, as well as The Gospel Book Store in Berlin. For queries or speaking engagements, email her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.