Inspiration strikes and sizzles like water on a hot skillet. Words form freely and pour forth upon the page like a torrent of refreshing summer rain. Cooling, soothing and oh so welcome after the days heat. The promise of more to come is like the lightning and the thunder, one faithfully following the other.
Would that it were always so. Truth is, inspiration strikes me far less frequently than the lightning struck yesterday. And the words do not always pour forth. Rather they come with coaxing, like a shy animal, afraid for too much attention. Become too insistent, too demanding and they flee for safer territory. Wary, wondering, worrying. Whispering, “What does she want? What does she want?”
The exigencies of life interfere. The clothes dryer signals that it is ready to be emptied, and the thought is lost. Train of thought as fragile as a train of soap bubbles leaving the bubble wand with nothing but a breath to birth them. Living for mere seconds and then gone. Beautiful for the moment and then lost for all time. Like a feather; soft and light and so fragile.
Autumn. Fall. That time between summer’s fiery immediacy and winter’s quiet contemplation. My most favorite season. And the rain yesterday … indescribable now. The moment lost. The feeling fled was one of sadness and joy mixed. Looking out at the world, wet and fresh and cool, I felt whole. Black and white, good and bad. The hummingbirds fly even in the rain when other birds sit patiently in the trees waiting for the downpour to end. Eternally hungry hummingbirds. Satisfying their needs no matter what. Tisking, always tisking, as if to say, “We don’t approve, we don’t approve.”
The rain ended and the breeze was cool and fresh with the smells of plants and light and life. The small things came forth again as did the sun. A tiny lizard did push-ups on the walkway. The robins cocked their heads first one way then the other listening for the worms that had come up near the surface of the earth to grasp at the little bit of moisture. The worms do not think, “Eat me,” but that is what happens. The robins, lightning swift, poked their beaks into the moist earth to grab the prize. Easy dinner.
That brief autumn rain was a crisp counterpoint to the dull heat, a leftover of summer that is gone. Before I know it, it will be all winter clothes and flannel sheets once more. But now, it is the in-between-time. The time when anything is possible and all things happen. When I feel as if I could fly. When the leaves fall and the trees’ bare bones and stark beauty are revealed. When the sunflowers give forth their bounty and the very last of summer’s flowers wane. When the taking in begins, and the settling down. Just before the long sleepy time that is winter. Perfect. I wish that fall would never end.