A little blue

This time of year catches me unawares when it comes back around, as if my heartbreak isn't predictable. It's not just the deeply cloudy skies, or the way the hours of daylight quickly diminish like sand in an hourglass, or that for a whole summer I spent each day - from coffee to cocktail - in someone's garden.

I watched my three friends - two black swallowtail caterpillars and a banded orbweaver spider - feed until well past the frost date. Wiser and wilder than I, they packed it in safely before our first real hard freeze. I checked on them obsessively until each disappeared, hoping I'd find the place where one would build a chrysalis or egg case. I cried when I lost track of them. I have always cried at goodbyes, and somehow, at this time of year, I feel closer to the others who live in my garden than just about anyone else.

I look for ways to feel like I still have a purpose. Tactics that work are physical - lots of yoga classes and hikes. I try to - and do - feel grateful that I have a job that allows me so much time off. I appreciate that I am in tune with the seasons, and that it's okay to feel sad about death.

And I remind myself that what I'm witnessing isn't only death, but also dormancy. I read once that a chipmunk stores far more seeds in his hollow than he should ever need, and then hibernates atop a great mound of them, which I imagine are so deep and so old that they perhaps ferment like compost and give off a little heat. This cheers me immensely.