pass the tissues and rewind

the way I was...

Friends, life threw me a curveball this week – a mashup of chaos, busyness, and that old familiar sting of rejection. Crafting something new felt like scaling Everest in flip-flops. So, I took a different path. I've dusted off a piece I penned exactly a year ago, polishing it with fresh eyes and another 365 days’ worth of experience. As I revisited these words, I found solace in their familiar embrace. My hope is that they might wrap you in a similar warmth, offering a moment of reflection or a smile as we navigate this season together.

So, grab a cozy blanket and keep reading!

“Your girl is lovely, Hubbell.”

I succumbed to a familiar trance, watching Barbra Streisand’s fingers dance through Robert Redford’s golden mane for the 200th time. As tears carved familiar paths down my cheeks, it felt like coming home – if home was a bittersweet cocktail of nostalgia and Hollywood heartache, served straight up with a twist of regret.

But nothing soothes the soul quite like basking in young Redford’s impossibly perfect glow. And The Way We Were isn't just a movie; it's my cinematic comfort food. It serves up a triple threat of swoon-worthy romance, razor-sharp wit, and – because why stop there? – the spicy complexity of communism. On this crisp September evening, it was the feast I didn’t even know my heart was craving.

Pass the tissues and rewind, please. I’m going back for seconds.

Monet, Autumn on the Seine at Argenteuil, 1873.

Fall: a sensory symphony. Crisp air nips at summer’s heels. Nature’s palette bleeds reds, oranges, and browns. Leaves crunch underfoot like bubble wrap. Woodsmoke wafts a primal perfume.

These autumnal joys are blazes on a trail, leading deep into a forest of wisdom and meaning.

And as surely as leaves turn, I become a hoarder of coziness. I mainline I Love Lucy and The Golden Girls until their quips echo in my dreams. Mom bookends my days with calls, my auditory security blanket. I slurp cheesy soups and nestle into my couch’s perfectly molded butt-crater. Poor Delilah endures my cuddle attacks (her patience is shorter than my attention span). I watch squirrels dash about, their cheeks stuffed like furry kleptomaniacs. Muddy Waters howls as I drive, my hair whipping in the wind. I gulp the breeze, wishing I could bottle this fullness. I’m squeezing life so hard my knuckles scream for mercy.

I’m yearning, but not for the past; I have too much of an appreciation for the present. But these rituals are a time-traveling window, sharpening my view of the now through the lens of then. I watch Lucy Ricardo set her nose on fire in front of William Holden, and suddenly I’m little me again, giggling too close to the TV on my grandparents’ cool brick floor. I see Katie gazing at Hubbell with such love, and I’m instantly my sick, 15-year-old self, face streaked with tears, a snot-nosed, sobbing mess watching true love implode. It's not nostalgia – it’s time travel with a purpose.

I once heard an actress say when she watches her films, she doesn't see the plot but rather flickering slides of her life. That’s my autumn – a magical projector flashing my greatest hits and epic fails. Each replay is a map of how far I’ve come. Every triumph and face plant led here – to this imperfect, glorious me. That’s perspective’s magic trick. The dots connect, the path clears. I feel unburdened, aligned with my true north.

And each year, as I slip into this season, the landing gets softer. Like my emotional airbag inflates a little more.

But fall isn't just a sentimental journey – it’s rebirth. There’s that “crisp autumn air” Fitzgerald rhapsodized about, crackling with electric possibility. Maybe it’s just the breeze. Or perhaps it's those show-off trees – maples, oaks, elms – strutting their stuff.

Camus saw it too, calling autumn “a second spring when every leaf is in flower.”And May Sarton? She whispered the wisdom of trees: “Learn to lose in order to recover...Let it all pass. Let it go.”

The circle game, indeed.

So, what’s the point of this musing? I guess it’s a love letter—

September, you magnificent month, you help me gorge on life’s fullness, its aching loneliness, and exhilarating fright. This is religion in its rarest, purest form.

And so, I reliably surrender, finding not an ending, but an invitation – to grow, to remember, to become.

Remember to click that heart to make mine EXPLODE!!! 🫀❤️