The hidden lights of autumn

At this time of year, my whole being seems to want to hibernate. With less energy, I must develop a routine of physical movement (like 1-2 daily walks) that I stick to so consistently that it becomes automatic and there is no room for self-negotiation. With a raging appetite (and part of it could be a remnant of my trail-running training program earlier this year), I have to make sure I continue to select nutritious food items. With a need to be cozy, wrap myself into a blanket and stare at the dancing, orange heat emanating from my fireplace, I resist the reflex to self-judge what looks like a lack of motivation.

Despite maximizing daylight exposure each day (I sweep leaves sometimes first thing in the morning and I even adjust my reading location as I follow sunrise or sunset to catch the heat from sunrays), my mood tends to be gloomier. I must add more color in my life, literally and figuratively. 

And when color, this force of boldness, this anchor of my sensory experience, the delight of my eyesight, pops up unexpectedly in my visual and energy field, it can be the most divine surprise. 

Over the weekend, I noticed that my Christmas cactus, a milestone birthday present from my friend Julie a couple of years ago, was starting to bloom again. This is a meaningful gift because she knew how sad I had felt to have left behind the similar plant we had had for over a decade, since our years in Minnesota. This loss was among the other various casualties and renunciations from my divorce. I remember its red buds that would bloom into hibiscus-like flowers each winter. Against all odds (because I do not have a green thumb, and keeping my plants alive is always a great source of Angst), I saw that mine is producing again little paintbrush tips of a variety of pink. I think the transition from red to pink is symbolic... 

                                                      

And last week, there was this absolute, surreal delight in our night sky. I found out from a friend on social media instructing us to look north that there were aurora borealis that night. I rushed to the front balcony, wearing pajamas, and looked north. We could see them mostly through a picture. I stood still, holding my breath, for the 3 seconds the shot took. The result came out with the juvenile awe and quiet excitement of getting a picture from a photo booth or a polaroid. I couldn't help but wonder if it was cheating, if it counted as a seeing of northern lights. but I guess our camera has become some kind of X-ray machine now for certain things, so we can say that we have indeed witnessed or experienced the energy from these types of electromagnetic phenomena, just as unequivocally as we have bones in our body. 

                                            

I am grateful for color. I am grateful for the dream of my boys in which my middle son, Andreas, who from a young age displayed the promising abilities of a future designer or artist, had (in said dream) dressed up one of my Barbies in a very bold yet harmonious way: mauve ''débardeur'' (knitted tank top), assorted purple skirt, a large, white and pink scarf, and pink shoes. 

At this time of year 11 years ago, my father (whom I thank for the picture) and I were embodying the bravery as we packed a Honda Fit and drove my three boys to Anaheim for their first trip ever to Disneyland. Quantum physicists question the concept of linearity of time. And I get it. Love, fantasy, colors are simultaneously dancing in a kaleidoscope reality in our minds and hearts. And look at the colors underneath the saucer in which I am sitting with Andreas and Kristof ! Another synchronicity memory-dream...