Discontented Autumn

This is the Autumn of my discontent when I’m feeling out of sorts. The-bumping-into-things, forgot-where-I-left-my-glasses-again-and-getting-really-annoyed-about-it, wanting-to-jump-out-of-my-skin twitchiness that is draining, depressing, and downright dangerous, kind of out of sorts.

This usually happens twice a year at the changeover of the seasons. When there’s not a chance of Spring returning and when Autumn is but a fond memory of warm days and crisp nights. I’m not at my best during these transition times. Partly because my knee stiffens up at the slightest provocation and refuses to work as both it, and I, know it can. Partly because I feel as though I’ve run out of time to finish the things that I wanted to get done before the season ended. And partly because it’s not time to begin the things that need to be accomplished during the coming season.

First I rant, and Mrs Widdershins listens and says all the right things in the right places. Then I have a good cry, while Mrs Widdershins says all the right things in all the right places, as well as offering hugs and hankies. Then I’m exhausted and have a headache. I don’t understand how some people can have the kind of cry that almost wrenches your bones out of their sockets, and then spring up all full of vim and vigour!

At last, I wander around in a post-emotional-release daze, not unlike an orgasmic afterglow, but without the huge cheesy grin, or the feeling of well-being, or that you don’t have any bones. Actually it’s nothing like a post-orgasmic afterglow 😦

Now, I’m ready to decide what I’m going to do to celebrate this shift of seasons.

The weather forecast for tomorrow is for wind and rain.


I have a few errands to run and then I’m going to jump on a bus down to Kitsilano Beach, buy myself a very large chai latte and just sit there (out of the rain) and watch the sea as its whipped up by the winds coming in across Georgia Strait. 

Then I’ll come home and write.


“Winter is an etching, spring a watercolour, summer an oil painting, and autumn a mosaic of them all” – Stanley Horowitz