I don’t like fall

Before I took the shelves down

I am a person who craves light. Preferably sun, but even a hazy day or partly cloudy day is better than completely overcast, and I can live with the marine layer burning off by noon. One of the reasons I haven’t left California is that other places with lots of sun - Arizona, New Mexico - have become so hot they’re barely livable and they don’t have enough water.

People talk about Fall as a time when temperatures drop (I don’t care) and leaves fall off the trees (don’t care about that either). What I don’t like about Fall is the way the light changes. It’s not just that the days are growing shorter so there are fewer hours of light (though I don’t like that), it’s that the quality of the light itself changes - it seems thinner somehow.

As the sun moves, the light shifts, angles, hits the windows differently, and some rooms become cold and almost dark. (And yes, I know the sun doesn’t move. Humor me.) The light is faded, the sun sets earlier and faster. And it feels to me like life itself is dying. Like a plant, I keep turning toward the light. I move from room to room, from chair to chair, I sit on the floor if that’s where the sun is. And I avoid the dark rooms, and I try not to be sad (which is useless, because I am sad).

All of this has led me to building a nest in the office - the room with the most light because there are panels of windows in one wall and in the ceiling as well, which makes it really warm until it gets dark.

I didn’t plan a nest - I got rid of some things and ended up with a couple of stretches of empty wall, so I added an oversize easy chair where the sun shines down, an end table with built-in chargers, and a lamp.

And now I spend much of my time here - Missy Cat and I sit in the chair in the sun reading or listening to podcasts, and when she gets irritated with me she moves to her huge cat tree to snooze in the sun by herself. There’s a twin bed in this room - we got it because before the transplant Randy had a giant oxygen compressor that he needed to hook up to while he slept.

So if I wanted to, I could stay in this room all the time and only come out if I needed to use the kitchen or do laundry. And I realize that this is a metaphor for how small my life has gotten since Randy died. I go places, I do things, but really I just want a warm, well-lighted place. (apologies to Hemingway).