There’s something about September.
I used to have a friend with September in her blog name — something about finding her in the month that brought hope and renewal. I feel the same. Even though my restart doesn’t really happen until October, when the leaves are thick with color and the air crisp, September reminds me that it’s coming.
September reminds me that I made it through another season of ash.
Maybe it’s because the summer is just so hot here. Maybe it’s because so many things have happened in the summer, when the sun’s oppressive rays refused to relent and I was forced to push through and believe.
Summer is when I realized a partnership was toxic.
Summer is when I experienced the death of a dream.
Summer is when I packed up newborn onesies and bottles and toys.
Summer is when everything fell apart with violent necessity.
Ultimately, the season of ash proves useful. I know this. I prepare for it. I let go. I shed. I release. Different seasons require different things, and this year was no different. My life looks nothing like I thought it would back in May. And yet here I am, nine days into September, taking stock of what is around me and what I’ve left behind. I think in a way I thought I was past the season of ash — that it dealt specifically with dreams and hope and things I once believed would never happen. But those things change, right? What we once hoped for, we now have, and that desire has been replaced with something else.
We breathe in, we breathe out.
Everything is a cycle.
September is the month of book releases. It’s the month I breathed life into the word mother. It’s the month of slower days and new beginnings and easy dreaming. The breeze turns cool in the mornings, and I’m struck with just how sudden change takes over.
I breathe in, accepting the newness.
I breathe out, releasing the ash.