It feels like just last week I was grumbling about the fact that winter wouldn't go away, and suddenly here we are in September again. I noticed a couple of little trees with bright orange leaves and "cut mi eye" (a rude, exaggerated turning away) at them. I actually like Fall, but I'm just not ready for it right now.
There's something very evocative about the end of summer. The fall flowers, with their deeper tones and hardier blooms, seem to be saying, "You have to be tough, as well as decorative, to be at your best at this time of year." They are the last hurrah before everything dies back and Old Man Winter throws his snowy robe around the land. I always get a little more introspective, more contemplative, the cooler the weather gets. I find myself looking into the woodlots and gardens as I drive by, my imagination drawing me in, picturing what it would feel like to run between the trees. Sometimes I pretend I'm being chased, heart pounding, desperate for a place to hide. Other times I'm a part of the woods, a nymph or goddess (usually a goddess...I like the fringe benefits!)
When I feel there isn't another word worth writing left in me, and I'm wrestling with the 'whys' and 'hows' of being an aspiring author, those flights of fancy give me a much needed lift. Inspiration is all around us, thank goodness!