Mirages

“In winter there is nobody, nothing. If you see a human figure, or a boat on the water, you grab binoculars.

But in summer everything fills. The day itself widens and stretches almost around the clock; these are very high latitudes, higher than Labrador's. You want to run all night. Summer people move into the houses that had stood empty, unseen, and unnoticed all winter…The bay fills up with moored boats and the waters beyond fill with pleasure craft, hundreds of cruisers and sailboats and speedboats. The wind dies and stays dead, and these fierce waters, which in winter feel the strongest windstorms in the country, become suddenly like a resort lake, some tame dammed reservoir, the plaything of any man-jack with a motor and a hull. Surely this is mirage. The heat is on, and the light is on, and someone is pouring drinks. On the beach we dip freshly dug clams from their shells. We play catch or sail a dinghy or holler; we have sand in our hair, calluses on our feet, hot brown skin on our arms.

This is the life of the senses, the life of pleasures. It is mirage on the half shell. It vanishes like any fun, and the empty winds resume.”

~ Annie Dillard, Mirages

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For all the glory of summer, autumn remains my favourite.
The house was filled with friends all weekend. Soup simmered on the stove and whenever we grew hungry, we dipped our spoons in, filling our bowls (then our bellies) with warmth.

We found ourselves reminiscing about all the old times. Sharing pieces of ourselves that we'd not shared before; so much misunderstanding and mischief. Memories may seem like mirages. vanishing more swiftly than summer. But the past has shaped us into the souls we are now.
And when I tell you a tale of when I was young, it is as if to say,
"This is  how I became the way that  I am."

Happy Autumn, friends.