I texted my friend, M, two weekends ago about lighting my first Autumn candle. It felt like a significant thing to do because now, everything will be in shades of orange and yellow and creams, we’re at the stopover before our final destination of apple picking and pumpkin pie.
The year feels over.
Post-August, everyone returns with a fervour to them. I live the year in two halves. From January to June the year is still young. Time feels limitless, and there’s a sense of hope and possibility that comes with the arrival of Spring and the highs of Summer. But July and August soon fall away and suddenly I’ve arrived at September with the feeling that I’ve not done what I needed to do to make this year worth it. I’ve fallen behind — months lost to frilly days of lying in the grass when I should have been pursuing. Pursuing what, I don’t know, but pursuing something, anything. It’s a subtle but constant panic about time slipping away, and while I’m left floundering, grasping at the sands slipping through my fingers, everyone else seems to have it all already figured out.
I think of all the things I’ve not accomplished — I’ve not reached the carefully calculated monthly word limit for the novel I told myself I’d complete this year. It seems like every writer on Substack is out there publishing and hitting milestones. There are so many wedding things that I need to do and I stare at the growing to-do list before tucking it neatly away and telling myself I’ll tackle it tomorrow. I wonder about my career and if I’ve wasted the last two years on a company that seems to pivot its business strategy every six months. I’m cast at sea, bobbing about with my arms outstretched. I like plans, but this year’s is quickly unravelling.
And then I breathe and I consider that maybe September is the time to reset everything. I think about what September is and realise it can be both Summer and Autumn; sometimes you get cold weather immediately, and sometimes you get a burst of warmth part way through the month; it is not forcing itself to be any one thing, it’s transitioning and, I suppose, so am I.
I spend a decent amount of time looking at our plants on our balcony. I remind B to water them and we admire the very tiny purple tomatoes hanging on a vine. The only successful ones we’ve grown. Last week he waved me over to point to the very small, green tomatoes that were growing at the top of the plant. It’s late for them, but they’re trying to grow with the resources they’ve got: late summer, inconsistent watering and now a cold, wet spell that may stunt their growth altogether. But they’re trying. I know they are.
I imagine myself as a tomato struggling in this cold September, still keeping up the fight. Not letting the feeling of falling behind get to me, I still have room, have time, to grow. The tomatoes are not doing anything but gently chugging along, using what they have to the best of their abilities. There are no worries about the end of the season, of being plucked from their pots. They simply keep going at a pace that works for them.
There is no race but the one I create, I tell myself. In an ideal world, my tomatoes would have reached maturity, ready to be eaten, but the reality is things so often do not go to plan. Such is life. I can restart at any point, I don’t have to follow the seasons or months or implement the ‘new me’ that society demands at New Year, instead, I sit here tackling each day the best I can, receptive to what is coming.
You are wiser than your years. And lying I. The grass is never wasted time. It is the stuff of life.