Autumn is arriving in New England. We have fallen leaves already covering the lawn, and the kids are chilly enough to wear footy pajamas, sleep under heaping mounds of comforters, and still bring their bodies to our bed for warmth in the early morning hours. Though the temperature is rumored to rise in the next few days, tonight we have a fire in the fireplace and it could as easily be mid-January as it is mid-September.
The kids have both begun school. Kyra departs each day with an, "I don't want to go to school," attitude, and returns with pleasure that she's been. Somehow the joy in her day doesn't translate in the early morning--and I can't say I'm terribly different. Though I find my work richly satisfying most days, it is a rare morning when I'm jumping to get there. We're a lucky family. We love one another, we love being together, and it is difficult to drag us out into the rest of the world on many days.
Lucas is bravely heading off to preschool two mornings a week. He puts his feet timidly on the white line, awaiting his handle on their class rope--the tool they use in the early weeks to get the kids to walk together and stay in a straight line. I'd like a rope some days with explicit instructions for where to hang on; I'll gladly follow along! The good news from his first day sounded something like this: "No one cried today!" I shared this remark with a colleague from work, and she questioned if perhaps we should evaluate our days on a similar scale. Hmmm....
It is a strange mix--this cluster of new beginnings and the shortening days, signaling the year's end. Even in the slow decay, the colors promise a vivid spring to come. The only constant is change.