I wrote to you this morning while I was on the brink of waking. I felt calm as I was writing to you especially after having an unsound sleep, getting over something—the food I ate? The change of weather? The usual. What I noticed—and I remember this feeling from childhood is of not being able to be still in my thoughts. I was feverish and also had chills, off and on, my head ached horribly—all I could do was sleep—and thoughts and images would not leave me be. They seemed to be going at a rate that made me feel things were moving quickly. I would try to watch them fly by and then I would also think of things that bring me calm. Trees. Breathing. Ocean. They helped, but feeling as though I was in a mad whirlwind of worry made me realize that it’s part of you, dear, October, more than any month.
You bring life and death—new beginnings. You are a dark cloth with vents that allow the air and light to shine in. You are a month that contains many intersections for me—a month to remember—a month that is both heavy and light.
I look to you October with a hesitation and at the same time I look to you with all my might. I stand at your outer edges and I jump high, leap, open my arms and move forward into love.
That’s all that I can muster for now, October. I know there will be more.