When I was a child, I used to talk as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I put aside childish things.
At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. At present I know partially; then I shall know fully, as I am fully known.
So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
– 1 Corinthians 13:11-13.

And the seasons they go ‘round and ‘round
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We’re captive on the carousel of time.
We can’t return we can only look behind from where we came
And go ‘round and ‘round and ‘round in the circle game.
– Joni Mitchell

There is an appointed time for everything,
and a time for every affair under the heavens.
A time to give birth, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to tear down, and a time to build.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them;
a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces.
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away.
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to be silent, and a time to speak.
A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace.

– Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

September is beautiful: cool, crisp mornings, sunny days, pink and gold sunsets followed by cool, dry breezes. September has perfect weather for sleeping with the window open in a fleeting balance where neither air conditioner nor fan nor furnace is needed.
Soon the choppers will be swallowing up mature cow corn and spitting out mountains of corn silage into the dump wagon. Truckload after truckload, hour after hour, it will be dumped into the trench silos, packed firmly, and covered with air tight plastic and tires. Like the autumn leaves, the chopped corn will be transformed into something new, from fresh and green to fermented, brown, and preserved.
September is also the month of nostalgia and a sadness that the soul feels but the mind does not understand, and words cannot articulate. It’s the contrast between the summer warmth and the beginning of autumn color and shorter days which makes even ordinary moments memorable, like bittersweet splashes of color and emotion against a bland, beige canvas. A woman, a child, and a dog are silhouetted against the fading sunset in an imaginary painting. Clouds of black smoke pour from the twin towers against a cloudless blue sky.
I am a child starting kindergarten who picked out my purple first-day-of-school dress at JC Penney in the city. I am overwhelmed by excitement because the dress has a “Winnie the Pooh” tag sewn in. Now I’m in second grade wearing my sister’s hand-me-down polyester pantsuit. My mother had my hair cut too short, and my classmates make fun of me and say I look like a boy. I’m the sixth grader who hauled a clear plastic suitcase full of paperbacks into school on the first day. I’m the middle school student in high heels and jeans, and the freshman in high school crying in the car at the end of the first day of school. I think that was yesterday morning, but suddenly I’m in my thirties, sitting on the sofa in a house that I own, nursing my six-week old infant son as the school bus goes past, and I start to weep thinking about his first day of kindergarten. The next day, I’m living in a different house which I own, and it really is my son’s first day of kindergarten. With great effort, I’m all smiles when the bus stops; he never sees the tears filling my eyes when the bus pulls away.
I am three years old, my father is driving us to the Springfield fair, and it starts to pour. He pulls into the driveway of a house to turn around and head back home, and I innocently ask, “Is this the Springfield fair?” I’m four years old at the fair, walking through an exhibit building with my family behind me, except I turn around and realize I am alone. I see that they have stopped to look at an exhibit, and no one has noticed that I am gone. I run back to them, and it seems like hundreds of feet. We do not ever go the midway, and we have no interest in rides. My father likes to walk through the cow barns and listen to demonstrations of Farfisa organs, and I think it’s boring. We buy salt water taffy.
Now I’m a teenager playing hooky from school to go to the fair. My father is at my side; I do not know that he will be dead in two months. I’m wearing a leather-fringed western jacket. We stop to listen to a country star practicing her fiddle on the back of the stage. I do not know her name or the name of the song she is playing, but I can still hear it in my head. I have started to enjoy looking at cows and Ginsu knife demonstrations. We have no interest in the midway. We buy salt water taffy to take home.
I’m in my mid-thirties and go to the fair with my boyfriend. It’s raining, but we like it because there are no crowds. I bump into a client from the veterinary hospital and her much younger boyfriend. I’m hoping that she doesn’t recognize me out of uniform and wearing a hooded rain coat, but she spots me instantly. We are in the midway – my boyfriend likes it. I like the cow barns, but he squeezes his nose shut and gags.
I’m in my early forties at the fair with my young son. He is only interested in the midway and is impatient with the cow barns. The rides are expensive, and when we run out of tickets he tries to convince me to spend $20 for more. Now he’s twelve years old and we’re at the fair with my new husband. A midway carny has just scammed my son out of a Pikachu doll that we thought he was going to win, and he is crestfallen. I start to tear up because I feel so bad for him. My husband is furious with both of us; the night is ruined.
I’m at the fair with my teenager. The midway rides started to make his stomach churn a few years ago. He eats corn dogs, and I have pizza fritta. He wants to look at the cows and the exhibits. We have a blast………….
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The trees feel the difference already, even though it’s only early September. Glimpses of red, yellow, and gold are now interspersed with the dark, mature greens of late summer which in turn replaced the light yellow-greens of spring’s new leaves.
I am like those trees, the dark brown hair of childhood and the raven hair of my youth has long ago been replaced by salt and pepper; now it is rapidly becoming snow white. My life has entered the autumn phase – not yet winter, but definitely past spring or summer. I look in the mirror and still see a remnant of the woman I used to be. The face is still mine, and it’s still relatively youthful and wrinkle-free. But now that my grandmother’s wooden vanity stand with the affixed mirror is serving as my desk, I’m constantly reminded that all physical resemblance to my youthful self ends there. The neck beneath the face has a grossly-enlarged thyroid which I have been assured is non-cancerous and which stubbornly refuses to shrink regardless of how consistent I am with my thyroid pills. I see the thirty pounds that I have gained since last November all around my abdomen, which resulted in my inability to button my pants and the need to purchase a new wardrobe not just once, but twice in the past year. I see the flabby arms and the loss of muscle tone that comes with age.
I will not pretend that my change in appearance doesn’t bother me. I dread bumping into people who knew me as a young woman because I can see in their eyes what they are thinking: “Wow, did she get fat!” But I do thank God that I am not the vain creature that I was 30 years ago when I was 5’8”, 135 pounds, and I looked like a movie star because this would have destroyed her. This three decades older version of Jane is starting to make peace with her appearance – not at peace yet, but getting there. Although it’s harder to exercise with all the extra weight, older and wiser Jane still goes to the gym. She goes for walks with her coworkers during break times and with her son after work. She signed up for tennis lessons and power yoga class. She dances the Cha Cha and the merengue when no one is looking. She eats good and healthy food in moderation.
The white hair is “pretty radical”, and when I let my hair down, I consider it to be nearly as stunningly beautiful as the longer raven hair of thirty years ago. I earned this hair. My body may show the ravages of the stress and hell that I have been through, but I’ve earned this body, too. On days when I’m impatient to be well and to be a healthy weight and feel discouraged about my body, I try to remember that the only thing that I will have forever is my soul. And now it is past my bedtime on a cool September night, and I will dream of falling leaves and sunsets. Good night.