The other day Marshall and I drove by a pumpkin patch and I was shocked. “They have pumpkins already?!” Marshall’s response was to look at me sideways and say, “Claire, it’s the end of September.”
I’m an October baby. On Friday the 13th this year, I’ll be turning 26, which is something I somehow feel terrified and apathetic about at the same time. I’m mostly trying not to think about it too much. I spend a lot of time telling my friends not to worry about some arbitrary timeline, that they are young and have plenty of time to accomplish the things they want to accomplish. It’s time to take my own advice.
I am not where I thought I would be at 26. There are a fair few things I’d hoped to achieve in 2017 that I haven’t, and won’t kid myself that I can in the remaining three months. But it’s OK. Fall is the time of year when it’s all right to let things die.
If I am a tree, I want to drop all the leaves that no longer serve me to make room for fresh green ones. I want this to be a season of reassessment: of figuring out what’s gone right and what’s gone wrong and what kind of things I hope for as 2018 approaches with all the subtlety of a freight train. I want to enter the new year with a hopeful and open heart, and I can’t do that weighed down with should haves and could haves.
Let what is dead fall away. Septembers will always turn into Octobers, and it’s OK to let them.