“ When you get quiet inside, the right words come a little easier.” — Maya Angelou
Writing of the Month
Fall
Lookout Valley Ranch, October 1999
We were sitting in an Armadillo restaurant in Aurora when Dana, the young Lakota man who has been in my life since I first interviewed him 10 years ago for a video on violence, turned to me and said, “You remember how I always have a hard time in the fall?” I nodded, not quite sure what he means. “That’s how I feel right now”. “You mean sad,” I said. “Yes,” he whispered and began to cry.
The leaves on the aspens are turning; dead leaves rustle as they fall to the ground. There’s a chill in the air. I wear socks in the morning as I pad around the empty house drinking tea. All this time I’ve craved solitude and now I’ve got it. I’m here alone at last and I don’t know if I like it.
It’s easy when you’re alone to want to fill up space as quickly and as thoroughly as possible. Doing things - going to town on errands, cleaning the office, watering the plants, anything. It’s when I’m here in this place doing nothing that being alone is hard. I am beginning to see that it’s one thing to be alone as a break, your kids are away, your husband is on a trip, you have time on your own and it feels so luxurious. Its another to be alone as a way of life, time on your own stretching as far as the mind can reach.
I think of Angelica left alone when Nello died. Her days were filled with work and children. But her nights were a whole other thing. She couldn’t flip on the T.V. and watch a movie or call a friend in another state. I leave all the lights on so I can move from room to room without entering any dark areas. But Angelica would need to carry her light with her from room to room. She would have been surrounded by impenetrable dark, outside and in.
I can only imagine the loneliness she must have felt.
I can fill up the space all I want but it feels better to let myself be sad. It’s a relief to let myself burst into tears. I am sick of trying to keep it together, power through, deal with everything with the old stiff upper lip I learned as a child. When I feel sad, I feel truly alive. I can’t say that I like it but it’s definitely real.
The vivid lush green of the wet summer is slowly fading. Even the sky seems a paler blue. The garden is looking disheveled, overgrown and going to seed. The dogs find the last rays of sun; it’s too cold to lie in the shade. I don’t want to think of what the arrival of fall means for the calves who have frolicked here all summer. Hunting season has begun and I can feel my stomach tighten in anticipation of gunshots piercing the cool air. Everything is changing. Fall is here and I feel sad.
Learn more about my memoir A Tree with My Name on It: Finding a Way Home
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Poetry Books Available for Purchase
Who Knew? 23 Poems on Aging
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