Autumn.

[Preface: Before I get complaints, I want you to know that I recognize the fragmented nature of my blog entries. This entry you are about to encounter, for example, does not connect or build upon the last in the slightest. This is somewhat disconcerting to me as I like being organized and succinct about things, but I’ve decided that my experience of life is, only when standing far from it and analyzing after the fact, organized and succinct. If, however, you follow me more closely you’ll see that I seem to have multiple layers of experience all happening at the same time, and I move between them like themed floors on a tall building (i.e. today I’m on the 6^th floor: “Bangladesh,” but now I’m on the 13^th floor: “middle school boy drama,” etc.). Since the primary objective of this blog is my personal satisfaction (in fantastic contrast to my classes, research papers, and therapy sessions) I shall just do as I fancy. So, with no further ado, I present you: Autumn.]

The weather has taken its first serious turn to autumn just yesterday with a distinctive chill in the air. There is also this particular scent that assures you this is no misleading summer “cold front,” but without a doubt the beginning of a new season.

There will doubtless still be many warm days (as Christmas day often likes to enjoy a good laugh at us all in our red sweaters by suddenly upping the atmospheric thermostat to 85 degrees), but summer, in all its radiant glory, is most definitely done. It is time for the leaves to fall in earnest, for the smell of firewood, and the daily struggle to get out of my now delisciously warm and comfortable bed in the morning.

All of these thoughts seem so brilliantly cheerful, and yet, even before I cognitively registered the seasonal transformation taking hold, a sadness crept over me which seems so out of place that I can’t help but wonder at it. It is like I am remembering something painful, but no memories come to mind. Did something sad happen to me in the fall once that a psychodynamic therapist could pull from my subconscious? Or is my sun-addicted physiology starting a preemptive strike with the foreknowledge of the waning sunlight?

Neither seem to fit.

To be honest, it feels more like missing someone, but I don’t know who. Do you know what I mean? Something about the chill and the deep scent – the penetrating goodness of it – draw me toward… home. Yes. Home. A home it seems I do not know. Or perhaps it is all those beautiful moments when I’ve felt the most “home;” the joy, the deep rightness it, unwilling to be possessed, but only accepted as it chooses to come in soft waves.

Yes. That feels right.

I miss home.

The Emptiness.

[Preface: There is nothing new under the sun, and this blog entry is certainly no exception to the rule.]

I've been staring at the emptiness all afternoon. It started creeping in a couple of weeks ago. I could see it out of the corner of my vision as I went about my business. I found myself walking faster, barricading myself with work and friends to avoid it getting too near. I did a superb job of it, if I don't say so myself.

Until this afternoon.

This afternoon I came home to my silent house after visiting friends this weekend, and even before I opened the door I knew, I knew I would walk into it if I didn't take quick action to avoid it.

I pondered this for a moment on my doorstep before giving up the chase. You can't run forever, Emily. I walked in, and there it was, as expected. I allowed myself to be engulfed by the questions and the pain... the pain was there just like I had never left it. It feels like a large empty room with no exit, and no direction. An emptiness. And in this emptiness the questions spin and rack my spirit, there is nothing between them and me in the emptiness; no protective layer of preoccupation or busy-ness. Then just as suddenly as the questions started, they came to a halting stop. Does any of it matter, Emily?

I stopped crying and leaned into this question. It expanded in the emptiness. This question which has so many answers; so many solid answers I have experienced and given others... but suddenly it is new, urgent, and unresolved again. Ihave to know.

I've realized the pain isn't the problem, as I thought it would be. I can handle the pain. I've surely given myself much too much credit for being able to handle the pain. And I've been so sure that it matters. Something about sitting in this darkness at times feels keenly purposeful; it seems to change me. But then what do I have to show for the supposed "change." I wonder now, is all just wishful thinking?

So that is my question. Are the questions and pain and fighting through it all... does it matter? Does it make any difference? Will it make any difference? As I recognize the "predestination" philosophy behind these approaches, I shake it off and look squarely at myself: "Emily, are you going to make it purposeful or not?" Then, hot indignation rising within me, I turn back on myself "ME? How can I know? Can I infuse purpose?" Then I stop. I turn to God.

You tell me. I wait.

Please, I need you to tell me again. And I'm still waiting.