In October, all I want to do is be in my garden, watching the season shift; it's a gentle, easy-to-miss shift, and I feel like if I walk inside at all, I'll miss what is good. But work in October is alarmingly busy, I experience stress and depression addled by the changing seasons, and my beloved gardens, books, and kitchen get ignored. This time of year, I'm lucky to see my gardens in the daylight, and when I cook, I cook giant messes of food that last us for days. Right now, we're working through an Italian meatball soup I made on Sunday that I hope lasts us for most of the week.
I have a list of things I want to explore in words: pomegranates, the meadow out front, the entire Capsicum baccatum species, but for now, my brief complaint is all I can get down.
I miss writing and plants, and I don't know which of the two I miss more.