Waxing Poetic

So, I should be finishing the touches on my PowerPoint for my ancient history presentation for tomorrow.
...And translating Ruth 3 for Hebrew.
........And translating and reformatting Isaiah 14 - 18 for my parallelisms class.

And, yet, here I am.  Talking to you wonderful people the cosmic void.  What's sad is that I don't even have anything that earth-shattering to discuss.  Nevertheless, here are the two topics that I can't get off of my brain:  1) Autumn is here almost.  2)  I love what I am studying.

I have already waxed poetic about the latter of those two subjects, but I feel the need for just a little bit of redux.  I sat in a class this morning, which was really not a class that I eh-vurr thought that I would be taking; and yet, as I sat there, listening to a professor who wasn't saying anything too monumentally profound, I discovered within myself a truth:  deciding to follow the prompting of the Lord to enroll in that class wasn't just an exercise in obedience or faith, it put me - very literally - in the exact right place at the exact right time.  And what a blessing that is.  Listen, I'm not saying that these days haven't been long or that there haven't been times when I have asked myself 'Can I even cram one more second into this day?'*  But there is an undeniable wholeness in knowing that the Lord has brought me here to learn these things, and that makes each and every day exquisitely wonderful.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Now, onto the topic that has been burning a metaphorical hole in the back of my mind (oh, my bad, I'm mixing metaphors).  This past Labor Day (which, I'm telling you, feels forever ago), some friends and I were able to have one last summery shindig at the community pool totally gratis compliments of a kind stranger.  I know, I know, the very words "community pool" call to mind shrieking babies and slightly yellow pool water, but in all reality, it was awesome.  Complete with legit water slides!  (That I didn't go on!)  We spent a few hours there playing Marco Polo (there was an unfortunate handful of a stranger's boob incident that we're not really going to delve into here) and generally laughing so hard it was hard to swim.

But then!  THEN, we came home and dried off and something almost palpable in me flipped the switch from Summer to Autumn and I immediately began dreaming of bobbing for apples, and picking apples, and lighting fires in the fireplace, and cozying up in a really big sweater.

So, my friends, I'm here to tell you that autumn is here.  Please don't burst my very delicate bubble.

I wore my (classy) knee-high boots yesterday.
I made a pumpkin pie from a real pumpkin.  (And Madie's begging me to bake another.)
I made pumpkin creamy polenta.
I even layered a (thin) sweater with a(n airy) blazer and I wasn't sweltering.

It got me thinking about this poem that Austin sent me last year, which is, in my estimation, the pinnacle of autumnal perfection:
The Autumn, Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them —
The summer flowers depart —
Sit still — as all transform’d to stone,
Except your musing heart.

How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!

The dearest hands that clasp our hands, —
Their presence may be o’er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
Which once refresh’d our mind,
Shall come — as, on those sighing woods,
The chilling autumn wind.

Hear not the wind — view not the woods;
Look out o’er vale and hill —
In spring, the sky encircled them —
The sky is round them still.
Come autumn’s scathe — come winter’s cold —
Come change — and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
Can ne’er be desolate.
Guys, get ready for me to start saying 'autumnal' all. the. time.


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