l'automne

My favorite season in the Yukon.

Harvest, rejuvenation, saturation of colors, plenty.

Thanks, summer. See you next year.

Three

I don't write much anymore.

There was a time when I would scribble poems on napkins in coffee shops, lest I forget a particular piece of graceful phrasing. I would turn on my computer late at night, and the words fell out of my fingers, unbidden and untethered. It was the truest and safest way I could process the world.

On my secret tiny blog, in tiny tiny font, with a teeny tiny audience, I wrote words that felt like they had to be sounded out against the void, or else. The soft weight of a million moments of triumph and heartache both.

I have to tell you, that it is weird for me to write here. It is very, very bright. White. Modern. Something. It doesn't feel very natural for me to be writing in, what I perceive to be, an incredibly public forum. Public because I hit publish. Public because I choose to share it. The other world of secret teeny tiny blog writing was blue, and soft, and safe. I didn't share that link with many Others.

It takes a lot of effort for me to think of a post to pen, here. I struggled with this thought all last month. Why have I become such a dispassionate writer? Why isn't it as natural as it once was? Necessary? How do I process my world without writing, now that it is arguably more nuanced and complicated as I grow up?

And the answer of course, comes to me unbidden, untethered.