We had firewood delivered last week. “Firewood John,” as my phone identifies him, backed his battered farm truck onto the grass next to the house. He tipped the bed until a pile of split logs lay next to our homemade stand. I stacked the yellow wood Tuesday after work under a crisp blue sky in air cool enough to burn my nose. I wore long sleeves and long pants. My cheeks were pink when I was done. By the end of this week, it might be cold enough to burn some of it.
Yesterday was gray and drizzly. Wind whipped the trees in neighbor’s yards and in the woods across the street. The dogwoods have turned scarlet with bright red berries. The tops of maples have begun to pink. I wore sweatpants and slippers at home; jeans and long sleeves, socks and a light fall jacket when we went out in the drizzle for bitters, to return a library book, and to sip coffee and read at the café where I buy our coffee beans.
After dark, rain lashed the windows. I burned pumpkin spice candles. My husband fried garlic and onions for a white bean soup. He served it with balsamic dressed greens and baked sweet potatoes with feta and pepitas. A warming meal for a chilly, raw night.
Today we’ll get more rain. The streets will be wet, the sky heavy and gray. I love it. I’ll finish the book I’m reading for book club, I See You’ve Called in Dead. It’s about a depressed obituary writer who jokingly writes his obituary one night when he’s drunk. He publishes it. He shows up to work the next day not dead, and he’s put on leave for his recklessness. He starts going to funerals, where the dead no longer have the choice to live.
The book is a little on the nose at times, but it’s asking questions about what it means to be alive. I’m not sure of the answer. It’s not just about being content and reading books and looking at art and admiring fall leaves. Of all of those things, probably the only one I’d regret not doing more of is appreciating the beauty of the world and the physical gift of being able to enjoy it with my senses.
What I would regret even more is not spending enough time actively loving the important people in my life. I would regret not spending more quality time with them, not loving them the way they want to be loved.
Rain drums the roof and tings the chimney. A kitty lays on my arm and purrs. I put together a small care package for our daughter that I’ll send in the mail tomorrow. This morning, when my husband wakes up, I’ll see if he wants to go to breakfast together.
