autumn

It's autumn here and it is beautiful. There is a chill in the air. This was unacceptable in September, but I choose to embrace it now, with a longing for the comfort only brought by woollen jumpers, well heated houses in cold weather, and hot chocolate. Our central heating remains off at this time, but I sense the collective resolve of the household fading, and a decent cold snap will no doubt break it. Meanwhile fiery leaves, like wedges of huge ruby grapefruit, loll on tired branches. Soon they will be sludge on the pavements, forcing me to walk home from work eyes-down, eyes pealed for slippery danger. But for now, I lift my head to see their final tribute to summer before they fall.

This year has progressed rapidly, driven onwards by the hope of spring, through the valley of Bronwyn's illness, into summer holidays and family visits. With school returned, this sudden chill reminds us that postal deadlines loom mere days away for contributions to an antipodean Christmas. We shall march into November, huddled under umbrellas, while extra practices are scheduled for end-of-term concerts. And before we know it we will be past Bronwyn's big birthday, celebrating the recollection of another birth, long ago. A few weeks beyond and who can know, perhaps a new adventure begins?

I started this year with a resolution of sorts, wary of past commitments yet knowing there's nothing like a goal. I would, I decided, complete every outstanding project I was involved in—by the end of this year. It was a big goal. It smacked of the kind of table-sweeping clarity that seemed to be needed. It resonated with a part of me that longed to be set free... from chains tied to opportunities that I had seized with two hands, each one adding to still more others that dragged behind me, three-quarters finished, half-forgotten. It is a curse, not to be accepted lightly, to be able to see opportunity in many things.

I have made progress. It is difficult to say whether the goal will be achieved, but what is a contest without the possibility of defeat? Yet perhaps I can be heartened. I am sometimes learning to say... “No”... this strange word that seems drawn from a foreign tongue, expressing ideas I did not know I needed previously. And then the precious secret to clearing a backlog: First get no further behind. So I push on, each and every day attempting to achieve something that contributes to the goals I set for each three month period. I am (mostly) keeping myself accountable. It is (possibly) working. I may (unbelievably) come close to achieving that goal.

So should I reach the summit, what then? To start a new year, a tabula rasa, Locke's empty slate in my hand... Will I fill the page with writing again, new burdens to challenge a future year's Duncan? Or can a spring clean become a new start, a different way of doing life?

I don't want to walk the road I've walked before.