Harvest

October has always been one of my favorite months of the year. Summer is definitely over and in the neighborhood I grew up in, the leaves would begin to crunch under your feet and a mysterious smell of the season started to permeate the evening air just before we were all called in for dinner. Perhaps the smell came from the pumpkins sitting on everyone’s front porch, fermenting through their first and last great performances, or maybe the smell was a bi-product of the chemical reaction from the change all around us in the trees, the air, the times---I never figured it out but it was intoxicating and spoke only October to me.

October was our friend. Halloween was in the air all month long and the fall marked our survival of the first month back to school. We were comforted once again by things familiar as we all fell back into the routines of everyday school life. By October you realized if you just kept your nose down in your work, the newest school year to present itself would pass, and do so quickly, lost in time flying by unnoticed, sailing us right through to Christmas and beyond.

Maybe I love October because it was the last time I saw my father, his last birthday in 1983. Dad came home from the hospital for a few days and my brother and I thought, maybe just maybe, he was getting better, he would make it. October was full of hope. Hope that all things change, good or bad, like the color of the leaves and the weather.

Despite losing our father the day before Halloween, my mom encouraged us to dress up and go out trick or treating with our friends and try to enjoy ourselves. She told us that Dad would have wanted it that way. I'm sure she was right. Even though I was 10 and my brother was 13 we knew we weren’t really kids anymore. So I dressed up in my Grandfather’s clown costume, 15 sizes too big for me, and my friend Julie and I followed my brother and a few friends door to door trying to fill old pillowcases with the magic of the holiday. With every step around the neighborhood, my brother and I silently promised ourselves we would not hold a grudge against October.

Now I am 27 years older and the calendar pages seem to turn with no effort. October is still a welcomed visitor for me and this year I am beginning to appreciate it even more. I feel the harvest. Although I never lived or worked on a farm, I find myself taking inventory of the past year long before Thanksgiving. What did I cultivate in my life this year? What still needs to be nurtured? October seems to be my time to stop, take a deep, grateful breath, and count my blessings for all I have accomplished and experienced. Good and bad.

This past year and its challenges as well as its triumphs have been gifts from God and the hurdles I have yet to scale are comforting companions as I look to the years end. I am ready to hunker down into cooler temperatures and complete my writing goals for this year with a steaming cup of coffee sitting on my desk. I am also looking forward to the benefits of the seeds I have already planted coming to fruition next year. I realize now more than ever that every triumph, tragedy and ordinary, poetic moment in between shapes us and reminds me that where ever I am in life is exactly where I am supposed to be.