Vermont in September

God or not, the carpeted peaks and valleys that I see as I write this can only be explained in some miraculous way.

Still, right now a more relevant miracle would be a job interview! To be unemployed in September is like constantly remembering a deadline that’s gone by. Oh yeah, I recall, slapping my forehead. It’s September, the month of sharpened pencils and new binders. Shouldn’t my life be starting right about now? I’ve been sad in September before; I’ve had my life torn apart in September before; I’ve definitely eaten too much chocolate in September before. But I haven’t ever been quite this aimless in the face of the fall.

“Cheer up, Sarah!” my Inner Homecoming Queen giggles. “It’s a Tuesday, and you are eating cookies and gallivanting through the woods!” I’m surprised that my Inner Homecoming Queen knows the word gallivanting, but I take her point.

This encouragement led me to take a hike this morning by the river a few minutes from my house. (Actually, it is more like a walk with two hills, but let’s call it a hike for the sake of boosting my self-confidence.)  I spent the first fifteen minutes brainstorming new usernames for my Twitter account, because srellisboo just doesn’t seem professional enough. I spent the next fifteen minutes imagining what I would do if I was hit by a rogue biker. Who would I call? How long would I have lower back pain? Would I get the biker’s information, or would I be too nervous and let them go free?

But my IHQ was persistent: “Sarah! Stop! Chill out! Notice Vermont in September!” Grudgingly, I started to look and listen.

In hippie-dippie lore, communing with nature bandages up those cuts inside that we would rather not scratch, but do anyway. But my problems were not solved by an afternoon in the woods, and I walked, not quite happy amidst the goldenrod and stumbling ants. Still, the sumac on the side of the trail burned with color, and I felt a pang for the cornfields wasting away on my left. The smell of the river weakened by drought brought me back to afternoons submerged in the Whetstone River by my childhood house. And the air sang as equipment banged, clattered, and thumped at the construction site by the bridge crossing the river.

These were all good things. All good, beautiful things. And to be unemployed in September might be a good, beautiful thing if I can stop, chill out, and notice Vermont in September.