September 26, 2009, journal entry

14 miles.

There is no place prettier for an autumn long distance run than my route through Lincoln, Manito, and Cannon Hill Parks. The golden hue of the Goddess-y sun gives the kingly oaks and the fall foliage a sepia-colored treatment, and I bask in the Sun’s powerful presence that assures me of my survival, even thriving, through the changing of seasons. Snow is sure to fall this winter, but this same Sun will reveal the burgeoning Earth below in spring. Acorns line the streets, the green of the newly fallen joining the experienced brown on the ground, and chestnuts are dropping as though their trees in an animated posture are undressing, their spiky capsules spilling their rich chocolate contents.

The squirrels are numerous, too, busy now as the sentinels of their homes, not daring to rest in the trees’ fruitflesh harvest. I have always loved squirrels, and, even as a girl, when in spring I collected robin’s eggshells of light blue-tivity, I was enamored with the squirrels of fall and their fluffy tails, thick reddened fur, and the magical acorns they collected. I would pocket a few of the acorns myself, treasuring them as my own private amulets. Nightly, this past summer found me sitting poolside with my stack of books and pile of pencils as my boys played and splashed in the water, reminding me of when I was their age sitting poolside as a child, not allowed to swim because of ear infections yet unexpectedly finding comfort, joy, and creativity for one of many times within my fragrant box of Crayola coloring crayons and yellow-covered coloring book devoted to pictures only of squirrels.

~~~

Earlier this week, as I sat in a park, my books at hand and a veggie sandwich from the courthouse cafeteria at the ready for an impromptu picnic for one, I watched squirrels scour the sprinkler-wetted ground. One selected a thin green acorn dropped from the branches of a variety of white oak, nibbled at it, and, gesturing its distaste with its body, spit it out. Taking a second, he tasted it, only to discard it, but found the third to his satisfaction, running up the tree’s carved stories of a totem pole. Perched in the underarm of its branches, he ate enthusiastically, pieces falling to the ground, like showers of cone bracts.

~~~

So during my morning run’s incantation, I continued to feel the Sun’s light heating the top of my head, melting away any stress I might be feeling. This week saw the departure of my beloved Summer runs and the arrival of anticipated Autumn’s, and, although Fall arrived officially this week, I have been feeling and seeing her on and off for quite some time now, beginning with my visit to New York City’s Central Park in early August. With the warm temperatures as of late, under the guiding passage of the Sun, I continue to experience the sensual leftovers of Summer mixed in with the cornucopia of Autumn, leading me to wonder about the way we have gone about measuring seasons in calendar days, time, and hours. Perhaps these measuring cups are not the most accurate of seasonal tools.

Personally, I like the idea of looking at time through a kaleidoscope of color and glass: the turning colors of trees, flowers, and vines, Nature’s patterns and fabric that shift like light dappling on mirrors, and the tumbling beads of fruit and leaves, all in the revolving wheel of seasons.

GL, 9/26/2009. Prevail.