Notes on the Grippe

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day One Hundred Sixty Six

There has been a distinct chill to the air these last few mornings. The heat, which only last week was unrelenting, has dissipated. The afternoons are pleasant, while evenings require a jacket. That this should come as the calendar turns over to September is undoubtedly a coincidence, but it serves to emphasize what cannot be denied.

The seasons are turning and autumn will soon be upon us. Harvest has already begun in many places. In fact, when we journeyed south some weeks ago the combines were already rolling through the golden fields. Even in the farthest reaches of the north they will be starting, hurrying to get the crop off before the first frost. My own harvest began in July and will hopefully stretch on to the end of the month, perhaps even longer, for kale and chard prefer the cool of autumn.

The other day my love and I went for a walk through our neighbourhood where, in the last number of years, murals have been painted on the sides of buildings, in back alleys and hidden corners. We walked up and down the streets, lingering in places we would never have stopped before. It felt like we were explorers on the search for secret places, unbeknownst to those who passed by these parts, myself included. The whole experience was very satisfying in a way I had not expected.

So often in our day to day we do that, passing by without giving the places we go any particular thought. The destination and the task at hand distract us, as do all manner of concerns. It is so easy to get lost in one’s head. Taking a moment to look around, to actually see what is before us, quiets all those thoughts and worries.

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