And contentedness spreads…

The temperature is lower and our heat reflective curtains are open, open, open.

Of course, a low temperature in sweet Texas is somewhere in the low eighties.  It’s low enough to sit outside in the middle of the day when the elementary school kids flood the streets for home.  And it’s joyfully low enough to leave the window open at my desk so that I can watch the neighborhood cats find lounging spots in the quiet parts of the day.  The Texas season change is slight, but I think it’s finally here.

My writing desk, which overlooks our street.
My writing desk, which overlooks our street.

Yesterday at the grocery store I bought two packages of cinnamon sticks, unsure what would become of them.  I’ve kept the package sealed, though, afraid to unleash the smells of fall when all too quickly the air could once again become hot.  These middle-months of September and October are so dangerously unpredictable.   But I think I like the Texas teasing.

I’ve been saving my quarters for the glorious, four-dollar Pumpkin Spice Latte.  (They really do taste like Thanksgiving season.)  I even bought a pumpkin this morning.  I am totally on board with fall right now.  Right at this moment, friends, I’m wearing boots.

Fall has this air of contentedness about it, don’t you think?  For our old house, it means no more buzzing air conditioning units throughout the day, no more overly warm living rooms in the late afternoon.  The “beginning” days of the school year are long over, and the rhythm of the semester is set.  Such contentedness.

And the contentedness spreads… it is expanding to fill all the small and large places of my life: my work, my writing, my marriage, my community.  Things are still.  Things are good.  This is a season of orientation, and I feel compelled to keep it that way.

Sometimes I push for change and for new responsibilities, even when life is full.  It’s as if I’m hard wired to search for new complications.  Not so right now.

I’m resting.  Days are starting to have small Sabbaths in them—is it just this season of life?  have I finally figured out a rhythm for this work?  should I be doing something scholarly right now?

I could get used to this kind of peace.

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