And so the long descent begins.
Having reached the heights, there is no place to go but down.
Having conquered the peaks, nothing but valleys remain.
Sara Teasdale said it better than I can, but from a woman’s perspective:
THE LONG HILL
by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
I must have passed the crest a while ago
And now I am going down--
Strange to have crossed the crest and not to know,
But the brambles were always catching the hem of my gown.
All the morning I thought how proud I should be
To stand there straight as a queen,
Wrapped in the wind and the sun with the world under me--
But the air was dull, there was little I could have seen.
It was nearly level along the beaten track
And the brambles caught in my gown--
But it’s no use now to think of turning back,
The rest of the way will be only going down.
Every year, as summer begins to wane and an early autumn coolness fills the mornings, a strange thing occurs. Instead of becoming invigorated, I become melancholy. Wistful. Lonely. No, not lonely exactly, because I do have a wife and children and grandchildren.
I don’t know the right word to use to describe my state at this time of year, but when the leaves begin to fall, it happens like clockwork.
Sooner or later I remember, and then it makes sense.
My mother died on the 4th of October, many years ago.
Once I can identify the reason for the feeling, I manage to get on with my life. But until then, I like to read Sara Teasdale.
If this post makes any sense at all, it’s not my fault.
