Seasons Change

It is very disconcerting when the temperature gauge is out of sync with the current month of the year. It's October, after all. I was raised in New England where the turning of the calendar page to this month spells the cue to pack up the cotton, light-weight clothes, bathing suits and cover-ups, sandals and sun gear and make room for wool and flannel, the smell of good leather boots, crisp apples and cinnamon sticks.

I should know that to live in California means to be always ready for things to change and above all, that nothing is what it is supposed to be. So I should not be surprised that last week it rained and the temperature dropped (gasp!) to the 60-degree mark and this week it is almost 90-degrees again. I do not begrudge the sunshine, trust me. I think I am longing for cycles I can count on, traditions that do not fail me, and a solid mark I can spot to anchor my equilibrium.

Seasons change. I have known that all my life. The change of an entire season keeps us rotating through the days conscious there will be an ending of this semester and a new one will begin, like it or not. Right now, I find myself weary of the fluctuations that happen within these seasons. I'd like to just get on with accepting the "next" without having to have these pop-up moments that don't belong here right now to interrupt the flow.

Six years ago (almost), Mike and I were driving home from an engagement party on a chilly and slightly damp November evening. In a split second, seasons changed for us in a much larger sense. Tires squealed, there was impact, shattered glass and a new trajectory in my world. What to wear now included a whole line of post-surgical, therapeutic comfort wear. There are new prescriptions to be filled and a whole line of pharmaceuticals in my medicine cabinet. This is the new season of "right now" around here... every year about this time I have a total recall of that abrupt, unexpected change in my life. It has created a micro-climate of consciousness of the likelihood of more of these necessary adjustments to come, like it or not. I get it, but no, I do not like it.

I believe something happened in my own atmosphere after that wicked November night. I have acquired an internal atmospheric pressure sensor that picks up on any microscopic indications of impending variance in life. It's a feeling that happens when something is slightly askew -- an unsettling quiet lull, paling skill, a run of silent phones and absent children under your roof.... I am constantly in a state of vigil, anticipating the next shift in the forecast. It is the way the thermostat works around here now -- I feel it more than ever this time of year for some reason.

Right now as some leaves are falling (yes, leaves do fall somewhat even here in California), I have the air conditioner running full blast and I am holding off packing away the sandals a little longer. I'm going to be a sport about it all, but meanwhile, I will not leave home without also packing a sweater and an umbrella, too. I'm not sure what "normal" seasons look like anymore, but I am trying to adapt somehow.

I Have Never Cartwheeled

I've never done a cartwheel. I am not sure if that should be gravely disappointing, typically, but today the realization just hit me. I was walking past a park where two pre-teen girls were doing cartwheels, trying and failing, trying and succeeding, trying regardless of who was watching, who would judge them, or whether they were good at it or not. Their complete lack of self-consciousness was stunning to me. And it created a gnawing feeling in my gut (again), running concurrently with the recitation of The List -- the list of things I never tried but wish I had (maybe).

I wish I had jumped off the big rock in Hawaii. My kids followed my husband up that black rock to dangerous heights and shook off their nerves and fear of belly-flopping or bad, wet hair and jumped. I remember the look on Emily's freckled 12-year-old face when she emerged up from the salty ocean having accomplished this. I am so proud of her. She won't be sitting here like me, wondering why I never tried it, why I carry so much fear around with me all the time.

I wish I followed through with my singing and guitar lessons. While I don't think I would ever be cast as the lead diva in Swan Lake, I also wish I had not let the fear of being caught in a leotard prevent me from continuing my work at the barre and those pirouettes I dreamed of at age 4.

Right now, I wish I already knew how to Zumba. My hero-friend, Carmen has Zumba'd off 30-lbs and had fun every step of the way, including a stint with a broken foot. (Way to go, Carmen!)

Somewhere along the way, I think I established that if there was danger involved, I should withdraw. I must have also adopted the notion that not instantly becoming proficient at a skill must be lethal, so the prospect of staring at the imperfect learning curve, complete with falls, embarrassment, shame, sour notes and bruises to the thighs were just not for me.

What I want to know is how to hush those warning voices from my head... the ones that say, "ooooh, be careful" and "people have gotten hurt doing that, you know" ... and worse, "could you imagine being caught on film doing this?" How do I get to the place where I don't care about all that and the drive to freely cartwheel across an emerald green patch of lawn supersedes everything?

I have become Queen of the Excellently Cautious, a dubious distinction. I carry in my purse more items of first-aid than I carry cash, I realize. Ever vigilant, I stand by, watching the cartwheelers in my life with an eye toward their eventual need for an ace bandage, anti-inflammatory medication and a little snack, God-forbid their sugar plummets too quickly from all that twirling. I realize that I am the one people come to in a crowded room if they need a Tylenol, they know I will be standing by fully equipped to fix and rescue. I will surely not be the one jumping off the rock, I will be watching the stuff instead.

Maybe not. Maybe I will be the one who is absent-mindedly singing out loud while listening to the Black-Eyed Peas on my treadmill at the gym. Who cares? Someone might laugh at me, but just maybe, someone else might wish they were brave enough to try that, too ... and sing along. I am not going to die wondering, that is for sure.