10/6/25

This morning I woke up to the sound of my alarm - soft orchestral strings accompanied by bird song to give me the cheek caressing, warm, slow rise that I require not to feel as though the act of waking up itself is one more battle to win. I lay in bed, blankly gazing out of my window to see the needles of a pine dancing in a breeze that looked cold even from the warmth of my bed. With one foot in front of the other, I cautiously rose, straining the muscles I had cramped into a comfortable resting position, now creaking and moaning at their first movement of the day, and made my way to the front porch. I've grown accustomed to my morning cigarettes and an early morning breath of fresh, cool air. But this morning, as I closed my eyes, taking in the early coos of a morning dove and the scratching of a squirrel climbing the tree outside my window, something dawned on me. The early air had a specific light to it, the blades of grass under a blanket of steam, dew being slowly vaporized by the first kisses of sunlight, the brown leaves crunching under my feet as I made my way back inside; fall was finally here. 

A few days ago, I spent my evening properly adorning my house with the necessary decorations. A garland of fake autumnal leaves strewn across my lace curtains, a black and orange stuffed gnome atop my antique record player, and the usual pale green candlesticks replaced by ones mimicking the joints and bones of an unnamed phalange. I had been longing for the changing of seasons, craving a new start - some kind of physical representation that I am living in a new moment, and no longer so deeply attached to the versions of me I can never get close to again. From the moment I landed in Arizona, to the day I finally moved away, there was one phrase that was constantly on my lips; "I miss green". I missed the life on the East Coast. Not just the way I lived my own, but the way it itself interacts in a place that cultivates natural diversity. I missed hearing birds sing, not just the harsh caws of a grackle, but the sweet song that moves one's eyes up into the trees for a peak at the creature singing it. I missed seeing squirrels, and especially rabbits prancing around in any given patch of grass. I missed hearing leaves brush against one another, pine cones that litter the grassy floor, and branches that snap and pop under a cars tire. I missed everything so much, but once I finally returned to the home I grew up in, surrounded by all the bird songs, rabbits, and sounds of trees I could hope for, the only thing on my mind was what I was leaving behind - the warm days and cartoonishly clear blue skies. I was comparing a life of palm trees, brown concrete buildings, and dry heat to that of oaks, brick houses, and wet Fall mornings, rather than appreciating with fresh eyes the landscape I, at one point, took for granted. 

This summer took a lot out of me. It was a complete changing of the tides - a switch from one kind of life, one way of living, one daily schedule, to one that, even in my years of living in Pennsylvania, are simply not reflected in anything I've ever known. But more than that, it was simply a great loss. This Summer, I lost everything I had thought I was preparing myself to have forever - the apartment, the affectionate cat, the boyfriend, the UV index, the roommates and best friends - and I essentially lost it all in one foul swoop, wiping my free time and my schedule completely clean. It is no secret to anybody that I quickly concluded on my lack of passion for the Arizonian way of life, and the same can be said for Pennsylvania. Yet, in both places, I spent almost every waking moment fantasizing about the other. In Arizona I missed the green way of life, and nature itself. In Pennsylvania, I missed the coffee shops I regulared, the simplicity of a Downtown lifestyle in which everything is within a stones throw from wherever you currently are. No matter where I was, nor how long Id been there, I wanted to be where I was not - to see the friends and family I could not, to live the life that was no longer being offered. My brain refuses to live in the moment. Ive always been someone who lives their life 10 steps ahead; I'm doing *this* to get to *this*. And in many ways I think that mindset has served me well. I know that there are dues to be paid in order to garner the world I hope to live in one day, and so far, it has proved succesful. However, it feels like no matter what point I get to, it is never the finish line I thought it would be. I just had to graduate to get to the Summer; I just had to get through the Summer to go home; I just had to go home to start making money; I just have to make money to move to New York; but no matter what, I'm never done. I don't get to Summer, or go home home, or make money, and feel the pressure of the next step alleviated from my shoulders, I simply add the next step onto the load. 

Now that the seasons are changing, the daylight turned golden through a filter of yellow sycamore leaves, brisk morning air leaving a brush of cold droplets on the last remaining cobwebs of Summer, I remember why coming home was, at one point, something I looked forward to. My life should not be dictated by what I do not have. I should not spend my time only focusing on what is not, and what is gone, but what has been earned. I had to spend four years away, with no semblance of the season I have always loved so fondly to remember why I loved it so much to begin with. There is a phenomenon I have noticed in which I will see something from far away; an architectural building, a roller coaster, a mountain, and will feel so in awe of its beauty when seeing all of it at once. But as I get closer, it becomes just another building; just a ride, just the outdoors. My perspective completely shifts, and though I can be there and think "wow Im really here" it doesnt evoke as much of a deep yearning as I felt just admiring it from afar. And in many ways, I think that is my perspective on life. I see an object from a distance; a point in life I aspire to reach, but when there, its just another day - another day at work, another bed to sleep in. For the life of me, I dont know why that is. I don't know how I can identify a feeling, or more specifically, a problem, and yet not quite possess the ability to prevent it from occurring. How can I know I'm not living in the moment in a way that would benefit me, yet continue not to do so? 

As I sit on the porch, smoking a cigarette, I can feel the seasons changing, and somewhere inside me, I can feel the past getting left behind. I walk to work accompanied by a chorus of life I had missed so dearly, and for the first time, the minutes that pass with every step I take exist in a cohesive relationship. I'm in an old place, seeing old things, doing old activities with a new attitude. I admire the light on my skin, and the air entering my lungs. I remind myself how badly I wanted to be here, doing this, and for the first time, I feel it happening. I'm making an active effort to live in the moment, and count the leaves I see falling from the trees.