It has been, or remains to be, a season of waiting.
   Deep frost has only arrived and only enough to remind us what is to come.
   November is tomorrow.
   For weeks now the leaves on the trees have ever so slowly been shifting from green to yellow, occasionally reddish-orange (with a hint or brown), but for the most part the canopy of colour remains overhead in the park I choose to wander through daily.
   Yes, I have noticed the scattered leaves on the pavement – as I do each autumn – but this year it seems I keep waiting for that change.
   We need the seasons to remind us what is to come and what was there, or where we were. Each period of the year is incremental.
   If our life is not measured by days, it is marked by the seasons.
   It becomes personal.
   I feel, this year, like I am not undergoing any sort of obvious transformation.
   It is not for lack of trying.
   It is not that I am unmotivated.
   It is, perhaps, that I need to feel where I am before stepping forward.
   It is not progress but it is required to mark my place and hold it, just a little while longer.
   Maybe I am not ready for change?

10/21/2022                                                                            j.g.l.