There's something about September in Florida – it's different from any other time of year here. For me, at least. It's the end of summer, which in other places means the end of the high heat of the year's mid-months. But the heat never ends here.
The heat might be a little more sleepy in the morning and quicker to fade into dusk, trying to convince you it's leaving. It might feel less intense, more in line with the soft blue sky. But it's a trick. This is September – a reminder of how the heat is always here. Like it or not.
I normally like fall, just like most people. I mean, it would be difficult to not like autumn. But I've always been neither here nor there about it. It always felt like a nice, cozy time, but never enough for me to become a full-on fall superfan.
It's shifted this year. Now, really for the first time, I've found myself looking forward to fall. I realize, as I stubbornly slip on turtlenecks on an 85 degree morning, how the heat has started get to me. How sneaky.
September in Florida is hot, still hot. Even on the beautiful mornings with a fleeting cool breeze – that 2 p.m. heat is just around the corner.
I wanted to make this writing into some sort of metaphor. I wanted to use the seasonal change – or lack thereof – in Florida as some sort of reflection on the seasonal shifts in my – our – personal life. But that seems boring.
Because no matter what sort of meaning I apply to my surroundings – the time of year, the height of the sun in the sky, the depth of the seas rimming the land I live on, the heat and the rain and how they interact – the truth is that these things will keep happening the way they happen, always have and always will.
The sun will continue to rise in the morning, and set at night. That chance morning breeze will come in the morning, and leave in the afternoon. The heat will continue to be hot. The earth will keep revolving. No matter what I think of it.
Instead of assigning meaning to the things around me, I'm learning that it is perhaps more profound to instead find the meaning of the wacky idea of simply being alive on this ever-spinning rock – of being a little orb of a human pulsating under the sun, under Spanish moss, in the swamp of life.
Let the heat be hot. Let the breeze come and go. Let the trees rustle and kiss each other. See the world as it's spinning. And let it.
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