October is a special month, at least it is for me. It’s my birthday month. It holds good memories from when my mom gave me birthday parties with a Halloween theme. I’ve always associated my birthday (the 21st) with Halloween. And I have several friends with birthdays around this time, too. You will usually find my house decorated for this season.
October creeps up on you. Sometimes it masquerades as August with hot mid-days where you want to lie on the redwood deck, on the hot, dry boards that soothe muscles, sore from yard work.
Then, like this morning, it turns the other cheek. A cold front roars in with biting wind, leaving behind a glaze of snow.
Deer know when October arrives. Maybe it’s the hunters coming in from all over that drives them into the neighborhoods. “Our” deer appear out of nowhere, lie under the pinons, nibble what’s left of the flower beds. Chipmunks become manic, gathering and storing.
My Monday writing group, the Writers BLOC, resumes in earnest. They came here four days ago. We sat under the chandelier and wrote about spooky things, inspired by Poe’s Raven, clutching the chandelier’s chain.
I turn inward, cook with potatoes, carrots, rutabagas and beets–root vegetables that grow underground. Something within me wishes to go underground, becomes introspective, burrows into my core seeking the purpose of life. I want to get back to my writing, jewelry making, summarizing and harvesting.