Fall.

John Constable, The Hay Wain, 1821

Before you start working during the day to have a place to sleep at night, you might notice things like the way the light hits the leaves in the middle of the day and all the shades of deep orange and red make the sky look even more electric than it would alone, and it seems pretty amazing and maybe I'm old, but with stuff like this, who needs TV? Christ, who needs anything but to sit and watch the sun change the shape of the shadows?

This can happen in the kind of unseasonably warm mid-fall day that causes people to stop in the street and talk weather with strangers, who in turn are pleased to be approached; we are suddenly what we wish we were-- happy, friendly, unafraid, whole. This is the kind of day that reveals the paintings of the eighteenth century masters not as quaint and dull in their pastoral naiveté, but true and beautiful in their loving rendering of a realm far more elegant and powerful than the human world.

This day reminded me of a day about a year ago, when my professional responsibilities consisted of drawing trees and musing on the intricacies of the nature-versus-culture dichotomy. One such unseasonably warm fall day, I sat outside under a very large, very blue sky, among some majestic trees in a place that was not my home but I considered it to be. In Burlington, Vermont, a day past September that's not windy and rain-soaked is a celebrated rarity, and this day was nothing less than an affirmation that the world is not actually against you, which people sometimes need in a place with six months of winter.

On this particular day, I felt the sun shining on me and felt all the secrets of the universe swirling around in the air between the sun and myself, and I fell in love. I fell completely in love with the sometimes messy and inelegant process of life, felt truly fortunate to experience the beauty the world, with its trees and cool sounds and beautiful people it often allows. I should note that I was not under the influence of any substances other than Panda Bear pouring out of my headphones and the very beautiful film I had seen the night before, and the very beautiful man I'd seen it with. I was sure that I had transcended space and time, or at least my deep and debilitating hatred of a lot of what our world has to offer, had figured everything out and from that moment on, I would live my life in a way that would be nothing less than a steady trot toward a constant state of sublime one-ness with the world around me.


A year later, the world and I are two. A year later, I am not drawing trees and pondering my deep understanding of them.The beautiful man and I no longer speak (I never told him I think he is beautiful). I am not working for an intimate cabal of progressive revolutionaries looking to reshape the world with a bullet-proof combination of fiery intellect and pure passion. I am three thousand miles and three time zones away from that green, sun-drenched spot, and at this point, I suppose I should consider myself lucky to be outside at all during the day instead of cramped in meetings and unsavory shoes.

Instead, I know the trees while at the park with a two year old who I am paid to be there with. I feed her grapes and nod absently in response to the toddler's philosophical musings on the human condition. I offer her encouragement, tell her what not to do, and my heart stops if she gets too close to a car or the edge of anything high that she's standing on. People we encounter (other moms, the girl who makes my latte on our way to the park, which I place in the holder for caffeinated beverages in the sporty stroller I push) think I'm her mother, despite her big blue eyes and blonde hair, and my Chuck Taylors and fear of the entire situation. I also notice that every man we pass with the stroller checks us out, which has implications I don't feel prepared to address.

For someone who is uncomfortable with the thought of being someone's girlfriend, being thought of as someone's mom would be terrifying if it wasn't so implausible. But I can't help wondering: what if I was a mom, and I spent all day with my kid while my partner works? Would life as a twenty-three year old be any better, any less crushingly full of uncertainties and wishing I was somewhere, something, else?

Obviously not. The only conclusion I've come to is that I hope I wear (used) Chuck Taylors if I ever am a mom. But mostly, I hope that before that, I can draw some trees in the middle of the day again, and transcend space and time and maybe tell a beautiful person that I think they are.