October

I walked to work this morning and saw a big triangle of birds, flying south, wet sky as their backdrop. It felt like utter betrayal. It is strange how some things are so natural, so usual, and yet we never get used to them. Birds leaving us for some place warmer and lighter is one of them. Every October I see this picture and yet, every time it hurts. It's as if something dies when autumn comes and death, as we all know, is forever unnatural.

It's not too bad, of course. When so much withers outwardly, it is time to turn inward. It's time to arm oneself with a shield of good books (Ryszard Kapuscinski and Shiva Naipaul lately), buy new candles, make sure you don't miss any one good concert, listen to songs like Ben Abraham's A Quiet Prayer, and let the time pass quietly.

It might be even time to acquire a new skill and start baking bread. I went to a baking workshop last week and for the first time ever, if you happened to come by my home, you would occasionally smell the sweet, lifegiving smell of dark rye bread in the oven. It feels somehow fitting to start making my own bread in the abyss of October darkness.

But I admit, there's not much light. Not outwardly, not inwardly. At times I get a little scared because darkness seems to take over completely. Then it's good friends who shine the light and help you stay on the path you've chosen (or that's chosen you).

Last night I was walking home through the Old Town and suddenly, for the first time this year, I could feel the nearness of Christmas. Could smell it. I don't know how far we are from the first snow, in any case I am very much looking forward to seeing it.

Over and out.