Autumn sleep

My cats are sleeping on and around the only source of heat in our house – a gas stove in our living room. The living room is, for the time being also serving as our bedroom as we remodel the house. The reason I tell you this little bit is because in some ways, I really like the bedroom in the living room. It’s nice to wake up to the light and sound of autumn; the cold floors, the gray skies, the sound of school bells (okay, at 6:30am they are school ALARMS and put me in HELL, but that’s for another set of memoirs…).

I love Autumn. I love the scent and sound of a world pushing itself to sleep. People don’t necessarily believe that San Francisco has seasons but I disagree. They just aren’t traditional. Hell, what is in San Francisco IS traditional? Don’t get me started on the “normal” soapbox.

Suffice to say, I would spend six months in autumn if I could. Defeats the pupose of seasons but I don’t care. I’ve had this “thing” about Lubec, Maine for some time. I don’t know why. I just do. I envision walking down rural streets, covered with leaves and the scent of salt water, cold and crisp filling the air. I envision a warm fireplace and reading Robert Frost until the sun sets. I don’t know why, I just do. I have no idea why I picked Lubec. Most of my friends don’t either. Certainly not my husband. I’ve never even been there.

Paris in the Fall and Winter is close but not quite the same thing. It’s beautiful, smoky sunsets and chill air – it’s lovely but it’s just not New England. It’s not San Francisco. I sometimes wish to be everywhere just to drink it all in at the same time. For now, I just content myself with lying in bed on a cold morning, reading Robert Frost, cats snuggled against my legs, and enjoy the now.

To that end, here’s a little bit from Mr. Frost (and Alabaster who is now sleeping on my arms as I type this), to set the mood.

“My sorrow, when she’s here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.” — Robert Frost


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