A pot of rice

It's been a while. I suppose I've been distracted, light, happy, warm, and many of those good things that came with that California sunshine and my pantry-bedroom in June. It seems like fall has been over-nighted to this little town as I awoke to fog, and the sight of dried leaves outside my window that crunched as I walked to my car. Not only does it look like fall, but somewhere inside I can feel that fall is here. 

This afternoon faded quickly into evening as I sat on the couch peering out our cheap vinyl shades in between chapters of Childhood in World History in attempt to finish the book in time for my favorite class that meets tomorrow afternoon. As I look up to see the sun disappearing I can smell dinner boiling on the stove. Saffron rice will be the dish for the evening since studying can't happen without some kind of kitchen concoction, er, distraction. I know I need to get up and check on it, perhaps stir it to see that the bottom hasn't burned, but there's too much stirring going on already where you feel it in your chest churning the insides trying to make sense of what has slipped in. It's been a long time since I've gone through this stirring motion.

I remember last season, fall came fast and hard, I wasn't ready for it to hit so hard like it did. I remember the stirring inside poured out my eyes when nobody was watching, and for no reason at all, except that the stirring inside was nudging at something sensitive. I knew what was right, but I ignored the nudge, hoping it was wrong. Wishing to have my cake and eat it too. But cake always tastes better when it's fresh, just like saffron rice. 

This fall as I stare out the window, smelling my slightly charcoaled pot of rice, stirring up the mush inside I don't like what I feel stirring down in there. It's wearing on me to keep up that circular motion. My body needs rest along with my heart. I wish there was an easier way, but change is never easy.