Today, the astronomers say, is the exact balance of day and night commonly known as the Autumnal Equinox, Harvest Home or Mabon; it is my least favourite calendar day. I’m not entirely sure why . . . I’ve always found this time of year sad. Have I been raised to be this way? Is it some primordial survival instinct kicking it, advising me to dread the potential of scarcity of resources? Is it as simple as the diminishing of daylight? Is my sadness S.A.D.ness? Consciously I don’t mind the impending darkness of winter and I look forward to the shift from green to dazzling red-gold leaves, cascading from sleepy trees. My heart quickens at the prospect of long nights and clear, flatteringly starry-eyed skies!
I suppose it’s possible that some ‘past life trauma’ is to blame. Perhaps in I was in a previous existence sacrificed to ensure better crops. Somehow I don’t think so, though. Nope. I think the basis for the free-floating weirdness is probably the whole ‘hello-goodbye’ thing. I don’t mind any of the crisp ‘hellos’ that the start of each new season generally brings but I hate the goodbyes. With all the enthusiasm of a tomato vine after the first killing frost, here I am, waving a helpless farewell to summer as it cycles away from me, the flapping of an ace of hearts tucked in its bike spokes, ticking down the festival season like a mechanical clock with a stripped winding arbor.
In spite of the pressures of finishing things up with U of M and moving of house in preparation for the start of term at Leicester, it was a lovely summer. It has felt like a bit of a stolen season--no, much more than that. It seems to me that all of Leicester is somehow a stolen season, personified. 'Leicesterians' seem to be even-tempered and interested in the world. People smile at each other in the streets. They talk about social welfare and creative community development while comparing broccoli prices. There always (really, ALWAYS) seems to be something of pleasant interest going on--but not so very many ‘somethings’ that it becomes overwhelming.
Of course I’m fortunate. I’ve found a home in the heart of the Cultural Quarter, a stone’s throw from The Phoenix, The Curve, the town centre, Farmers’ Market, Leicester People’s Photography Gallery and Leicester Train Station. I’m only about a brisk twelve-minute stroll from the New Walk Museum, University of Leicester and De Montfort University. Even when it’s raining, my umbrella hardly has time to get wet in transit from anywhere to anywhere! Again, I feel very, very fortunate to live here.
Still, there is sorrow in the midst of all this circadian balance. I take some comfort in that old adage that all endings are simultaneously fresh beginnings but the platitude rings hollow in the autumnal chill. The heady aroma of sun-drenched recollection is beginning to fill the room. It seems inevitable; my flagging spirits are about to zealously harvest a bumper-crop of overly ripe wistfulness. Yes, just when I’m certain I’m going to be stuck with more ‘conserve of nostalgia’ than I can use or even give away at the holidays, rationalisation comes to my rescue, saying: “The passage of the seasons is a circle; where exactly does a circle begin? Where does it end?”
Watching the leaves softly drift away into the lengthening shadows I can see that I’ve been misguided by a trick of the light. Summertime is not riding away as I’d thought. It is out there right now, in the distance, pedaling as fast as it can to return.
