The olfactory of wet leaves reminds me of youth. Every rainy autumn day with the cornucopia of leaf hues stuck to sidewalks I walk. A natural repose of season. Of my first kiss, of my last evening waiting for dawn. This is my fall.

Any season succumbs to another, our process of time emulated with the sensory cues allowed us through the natural process. How often a song fades into these times and then, some day in the car, the song will emerge. The lost love or forgotten place will be reminded of and even a hiccup of remembrance will evolve. These are mere moments of life. The myriad of people creating a mosaic of our lives with seasons and music. This is how I want my life. Even when it aches.

The other day I was in a gallery and a box elder bug fell onto the back of my shirt. Someone brushed it off and told me and I thanked them for brushing the bug off me. At the time, I could only think of my lover taking the shirt from the closet that morning and holding it up to the breaking light in front of her face.

“What are you looking for? Stains?” I asked.

“No stains”. She replied.

Some mornings I wake up and curl my knees to my chest and pull the covers close around me. I think about how awful sad I get and wonder if I must manifest a during of happiness to become. My mongrel dog sighs at the end of the bed in unison with my thoughts.

In my mind, I am always gathering a semblance of this whole of me. I try to piece together little puzzle pieces that never fit to get a picture of yesterday and tomorrow. I rather wallow in the today with hopes of understanding the rest. Each today is a surprise filled with tasks to complete that I wish I’d done yesterday and would rather do tomorrow. This is today.

I can’t see my shadow on the wet pavement of the oil slick rainbow puddles of the boulevard. I bet my shadow is somewhere though and remains as a reminder of where I’ve been. There is one place here in Minneapolis where I have been many times. It is my spiritual grounds on the northern inlet of Lake of The Isles. The bench that was there is gone now, raised with renovation, but the place is still there and on autumn days I often visit it. The place is of my spirit, of my hopes and dreams and the place I went when my heart grew too big for my body. It is a sanctuary only for me and it remembers as much as I do. I can see my shadow there even in the dark.

If only I could grasp a sometimes of my life, I figure if then, I could be fine. Instead, I let go of everything once in a while each day and float through the life of mine. It is wonderful and fills me with a great clarity of being when I let go. My spirit relaxes with the ebb of momentum that suffocates my general being. There is no substitute for thyself.

I can’t help but wonder, but in moments like these of autumn leaves and feelings of place I subconsciously mandate a process within itself. One that occurs naturally and with not pressure or planing, only with serendipitous motion of will and love.