HELLO, OCTOBER

There's something about the month of October and this time of year that stirs up all of the nostalgia and love I have for the time I spent completing an English degree--something that seems to prick the collective heart of the literary-minded the world over and cause even the most modest of wordsmiths to wax poetic. This, among so many other reasons (PUMPKINS), is why October is my most favorite of months. So, to celebrate the beginning of this glorious time, I put together some words from wonderful writers to share with you (that were almost certainly spurred into creation by the same kinds of feelings we're all having right now). Grab a cup of cider, slip into some thick woolen socks, and enjoy. 

A CHORUS OF LEAVES

ODE TO A HUMMINGBIRD

Although Fall doesn't officially begin until late September, I'm one of those people who wants expects the weather to start turning cooler and more autumnal as soon as Labor Day gets itself over with. It's not that I don't like the Summer. I actually really like Summer.  My birthday is in the Summer, vacations usually happen in the Summer, and I like getting more freckles and making s'mores and longer daylight and all of those things. I just don't like Summer when it means 90+ degree weather ALL THE TIME. It's kind of hard to do summery things outside and enjoy them when twenty minutes outside of air conditioning makes you feel and look like you've ben stuck in a damp plastic bag and left on a dashboard. And then when you feel like that EVERY SINGLE DAY for THREE MONTHS, is it that surprising that you're kind of done with it? And possibly developing a very real case of Summer S.A.D? (I don't really think I have this, but there were a few days this Summer when I was like, I HAVE SAD. EVERYONE I HAVE SAD.) 

So right now, as it's still getting into the 90s every day and I have a closet full of sweaters itching to be worn (there's a striped one that is getting particularly eager--I have to shake him off in the mornings), I'm just a little very done. Very, very done. I sincerely hope I have emphasized this enough. I can keep emphasizing if you need me to. I minored in Emphasis. 

But I digress.

A week or so ago (or probably like six or seven weeks ago because this year is flying past me), I was looking out of our kitchen window when a hummingbird descended from a tree up above and zipped down to hover right beyond the window and stare at me. The moment didn't last long--within a few beats he had zoomed back up and over the tree out of sight. But it made me pause, if only for another moment, and think about how fantastic it was. I've always loved hummingbirds. I love how you see them so rarely, so when they do edge into your peripheral vision it's always exciting and fleeting and magical--the way they beat their wings so fast and cut through the air like some otherworldly UFOs. Encountering one is special. 

I also recently learned that a group of hummingbirds is called a charm or a glittering. 

A CHARM. 

A GLITTERING.

I swear I didn't make this up. A group of hummingbirds seen together at once is so special and so unusual and so magical that the grand namer of animal groups (Dave) decided to call them a charm (or a glittering). Which perfectly fits with how I feel when I see just one on its own, and of course how I felt that day when that tiny, jewel of a hummingbird deigned to visit me down below outside my window. Charmed. 

Which brings me to the end of the sidewalk of my thoughts. Day-to-day life is muddy and messy, often arduous, and full of days just hot enough to make you want to throw things. And that isn't going to change. Fall will come, yes, but afterward will be a Winter you at first embrace then quickly denounce once the Christmas tree is taken down. There will always be something, every day, that you could choose to allow to bother you and get you down. Maybe even multiple somethings--waiting to frustrate and disturb and upset around every corner. But there are also charms of hummingbirds waiting around the next, or perhaps even just one on its own, flying down to hover outside your window to remind you that they exist. To remind you that there is beauty and joy and goodness to find just as much as there are things to complain about. 

Sometimes it's just a glittering on the edge of a regular humdrum day, other times it's overflowing right in front of you, but it's always there. And it always will be. 

And that isn't going to change. 

HAPPY BACK TO HOGWARTS DAY

AN EXISTENTIAL QUESTION THROWN INTO THE VOID

It is a truth universally acknowledged that one of the most simple joys in life is going into a Chick-fil-A, placing an order for a chicken sandwich, and then thanking the workers profusely to get them to say "My pleasure!" a million times. 

I think Jane Austen wrote that. 

At least, up until today, that was true. Because up until today, the workers at Chick-fil-A always said that to me. They gave me my allotted two Chick-fil-A sauces. They smiled. And I believed it. But now, I am left to grapple with one of the most difficult questions mankind has ever asked:

What happens when you thank the worker bringing your Spicy Southwest Salad to you, and they don't say "My pleasure"? 

But really though--what happens? Do you get your meal for free--like when the Dairy Queen kid doesn't flip your blizzard upside down in front of your face? Are you on a prank show, being filmed for your reaction to this bizarre absence of Southern gentility? Is this the beginning of the world's inevitable downward spiral into madness and chaos that no one will believe is happening until it's too late? 

Or, more plausibly, is this omission of relaying his privilege to serve me a sign that he really, genuinely, was not pleased to hand me my order? That he was not enjoying his job during the rush of lunch-hour patrons jockeying for their greasy bags of poultry? Did he poison my food? 

And more importantly, why do I always end up saying "I'll have the Spicy Southwest Salad" in all its full, alliterative, valley-girl-sounding horror when I always tell myself I'll shorten the name of it before I order since I feel so dumb saying it? Do I subconsciously believe the workers will not know what I'm ordering if I just asked for the "southwest salad"? Do I secretly enjoy saying something that sounds so ridiculous? Am I stupid? 

(Did he poison my food?) 

Thus ends my hunger-induced soliloquy. 

A BRAIN FULL OF NOTHING

Do you ever think about all of the stuff taking up space in your brain that could probably (definitely) be used to house more important things? 

Because I think about this a lot. 

Typically in moments when I realize that I still know exactly where to find any Pokemon in the first three generations of Pokemon games. Or when I can name really obscure figures in Greek Mythology. Or when I can rap the entirety of songs like "Ice Ice Baby" and Will Smith's "Miami". (Yes, that is still hanging on in some dark, dark corner of my brain.)

Or the other day, when I realized that, twelve years later, I can still list the 53 prepositions that I had to memorize for a 7th grade Language Arts test in alphabetical order. To prove it, I will now type them all out as fast as humanly possible--the same way I have to say them out loud since slowing down will probably make me mess up. Ahem: 

about above across after against along amid among around at atop before behind below beneath beside between beyond but by concerning down during except for from in inside into like near of off on onto out outside over past regarding since through throughout to toward under underneath until up upon with within without 

This will really come in handy in the future when I'm on Jeopardy and the final question will involve having to recite all of these prepositions. Or when I'm kidnapped someday and the only way to escape will be to recite all of these prepositions. Or when I'm stranded on a desert island and the only way to make fire and survive will be to recite all of these prepositions. Or when I'm in an action movie and the only way to stop a bomb from detonating while simultaneously rescuing the bus of children whose lives are hanging in the balance will be to recite all of these prepositions. 

The point is, with the sheer amount of random and mostly useless things that fill my brain, I'm starting to wonder just how much space is left for anything else to squeeze in. Because I'd like to leave a little room for, oh, I don't know, stuff that might actually come in handy one day...or at least stuff that really matters. But I don't think there's much hope for that because my brain is basically a giant information sponge and the thin membrane separating it from the rest of the world almost guarantees instant osmosis and retention of things like rabbits being lagomorphs and the name of Mrs. Weasley's favorite singer being Celestina Warbeck and that Hemingway's first wife's name was Hadley and that the nickname of the Onyx you can get by trading a Bellsprout in Violet City in Pokemon Silver will always be Rocky. 

Yep. 

Party in the city where the heat is on all night on the beach till the break of dawn--

Yeah, there's no hope. 

P.S. Recently, after writing this, I sang the entire "Ripped My Pants" song from Spongebob out of nowhere and knew I had to write this here to further prove the point that MY BRAIN IS FULL OF THIS STUFF AND IT TERRIFIES ME.