Changes

I noticed it in early August, the dying of summer and the approach of Autumn,

The shimmer of light against pale leaves, leaves that once were thick with green, now letting the sunshine slither through, like sand seeping through a sieve.

Then I saw the poplars turning, their leaves beginning to yellow.

This morning as I drove to an early appointment, I looked at Tinker Mountain and saw that the familiar dark greens were giving way to milder color, muted, less pronounced - almost a gray in places.

Autumn is on its way.

This used to be my favorite time of year, not because of the cooling temperatures (most welcome now), or the colorful trees, but because September signaled my return to school.

Oh how I loved my education. I loved the books, the teachers, the smell of the school library overloaded with young adult fiction. Worlds where horses talked, girls solved mysteries, and toads enjoyed tea and joyrides in cars. Lands filled with inhabitants I could see in my minds eye with each word I devoured.

My teachers, for the most part, were good souls, even the older ones who must have seen thousands of kids offer up excuses for lack of homework. I adored their ability to reach me, to see into my soul, to call out the best of me. Oh yes, I was often the teacher's pet, the A student, the smart one the other kids sometimes hated but secretly admired. Too smart for my own good, book smart, and no common sense.

Or so some folks said.

I don't go back to school now in the fall. In August, when the notebooks go on sale, I sniff my way through the aisles of the box stores, occasionally (maybe frequently?) picking up an 18 cent notebook and placing it gently in my cart. My notebooks must not be bent or torn; I won't use them if they're mussed. Picky, I know. But don't we all have our quirks?

This morning I looked at the big project I have before me, one that would earn me a check-off on a masters' thesis if I were doing such a thing again (thank goodness I am not), and thought of those school days. Those long days in a seat with names scratched into the top of the desk. Those vividly rainbow-colored days when my English teacher captivated me with Shakespeare or Poe. And sometimes a teacher even managed to teach me math, though I could not tell the order of operations now if my life depended on it.

I know though the grammar rules, the "I" before "e" except after "c" and in weird words like weigh and neigh. Knowing the rules means I can break them, because once learned they became part of me, and then my reflexes can take over when I write, and I can be free of the phrases and clauses. I can write as I like, and end a sentence with a preposition.

Here I find my voice, on white pages - computer screens now. It was lost for a long time and sometimes it still disappears on me. Then I must seek again, that voice. That sound of my self, the song of my heart.

Autumn brings on these thoughts. The changing leaves soon will rustle beneath my feet should I take a quick walk, the wind will whirl them around my legs on a cool night.

The change is coming.

The wind speaks its name.