Losing the seasonal groove.

Since 1992, come rain or shine, I've published a seasonal essay at each equinox and solstice. Through moves to San Diego (Kensington), Santee, Santa Cruz, San Diego (Hillcrest) and San Diego (Normal Heights); through deaths of brother, mother, aunt and uncle; through two junior colleges and a university, an associate's degree and a bachelors; through the most ghastly renovation ever visited on man, woman or child - through it all, I've written this newsletter. I think I missed publishing one winter essay in 2001 or 2002, and that's about it.

A couple of weeks ago the autumnal equinox came and went, and struggling with two other writing deadlines, I shrugged it off. "I'll get to the newsletter before the New Moon," I assured myself. The New Moon came and went. No essay. And now it's time to meet another deadline, and I'm trying to finish another big project by the end of the year. And I find I just don't have the energy or the inspiration left over to tackle another autumn essay.

Is it possible that after thirteen years, I've simply run out of things to say about the seasons? They've been a real mainstay, helping me keep a toehold in cyclical time, teaching me how to peel back the layers of basic astrology and peer deep inside. And in a place like San Diego, where physical reminders of the changing seasons are so subtle as to be nearly undetectable, it was nice to take that moment, every few months, to meditate on the seasonal changes that take place on the inside. I enjoy going back and reading those little essays; they remind me who I was and what I was doing all those seasons ago, and how my mind was working.

When I look back over all those years of essays, the ones written in autumn are not my favorites; strange, since autumn is far and away my favorite season. I seem to write pretty well in spring and especially summer, but autumn finds me adrift, trying to find some kind of hook that resonates. And the winter essays are worse, a lot of fairly repetitive whining about how grumpy and awful I am and how Scrooge had the right idea all along. Maybe I've worn a groove in the seasons, revisiting the same themes over and over until the seasons themselves are losing their meaning for me.

So I'm not writing an autumn essay, I guess. Maybe I'm letting go of that long, beautiful, contemplative era. Or maybe it's a one-time thing, a fluke, and I'll be back at it this winter, bitching about Christmas. I really don't know. Let's see what happens.

And in the meantime, there'll be an article at the full moon, cross-posted at my website and at MoonCircles. And other stuff too, eventually. Autumnal greetings to you all!