|November 5, 11:30 am|
I'm often startled by sunny days in November. Year after year, I remember their brevity, and forget their brightness. I remember that shadows lengthen through the autumn, but forget that, by winter, they never really leave. Perhaps I've absorbed too many stories of high and shadowless noons to stop waiting for the sun to climb directly overhead from October through March. Expectation clashes with reality, time after time, despite all the evidence that ought to have corrected it long ago. A story is a powerful thing. I should read more works by northern writers.
I've been thinking on what inconsistencies lie in my own personal story. What parts of my subconscious narrative say "always been and will ever be so" when "this way for a time" is closer to the truth - and vise versa. Such constancy and novelty are less likely to be exposed by the cycle of seasons, yet every so often somethings brings the difference up short - be it a turn of events or turn of phrase, I'm surprised by the unsurprising. Changes I knew were coming seem sudden; I had absorbed the facts but not adjusted the plot.
I'm still adjusting, accepting that life I have is just a lovely as the one I thought I did. Learning to enjoy the long twisting shadows at noon, even if part of me thinks they shouldn't be there. All amidst the bittersweet tugs of past and future, there's beauty in the present.
Here's to the ever-changing stories, and continuing adventures.