October...

...for Knots in the String.

“The thing with October is, I think, it somehow gets in your very blood. Unapologetically. Almost ruthlessly.” ~ Anne Sexton

And apologetically, I pilfered this quote from Tom Ryan’s beautiful post

Fall Foliage Postcards

In the same way, so October on my island slides into my being, with spring making an effort to warm me, reminding me that it’s only a question of weeks before summer, swimming, boating, the sound of leather on willow and the cheeky calls of ‘Howzat!’

October on our coast is spring bright, almost jarring. Leaves and buds of chartreuse, lime, emerald, even verdigris and matcha green. Then there are the acid yellows of wattle and daffodil, the softest shell-pink and almond white of papery blossoms. And as I walk, the heady fragrances – daphne, boronia, blossoms, fragrantissima, hyacinths, early roses. Overall hangs the astringency of eucalypt and wattle and with clouds of pollen drifting on all kinds of air – breezes, storms, and gales which rattle the eaves and rip at the corrugated iron roofing. Tearing at the sheets and knickers on the line, tossing pillowslips and towels into the veggie garden without a care for the woman who launders them, pegs them out and who must retrieve the detritus.

October wends its way into my very being because it’s my birthday month and I feel childhood excitement and anticipation. A day of tradition, of favourite foods. Even though with each turn of the calendar wheel I edge further into life as a septuagenarian, I also push my physical and mental boundaries because life is finite and what’s life if not for living?

Doing:

I decide to swim as I look out the window on a cloudless sky. I pull on bathers, brush my hair up, haul on a wetsuit top. It’s like re-dressing the banana I peeled at breakfast and which when sliced, lay on top of creamy porridge. Diving boots warm my feet, and I walk down to the beach, the sun painfully bright after days of howling winds and grey cloud.

I leave my towel on a tussock so that it remains clear of sand, and walk to the water, pulling on diving gloves. If my feet and hands stay warm, then my body can cope, although it’ll be a while yet before I can put my head under the water. The ocean is still chill (12 degrees Celsius with icecream headaches that are ferocious). I keep walking and my legs begin to numb despite that the water fills my boots and gloves and warms rapidly. Before long, my wetsuit top fills and I launch into the cold, swimming north, just a gentle breaststroke and a bit of backstroke, looking up at the sky or at the shoreline, watching the dogwalkers. The dogs stare at the floating ‘thing’ out there. The odd labrador will often try to join me but mostly the dogs bark and move on.

In fifteen minutes, my bare legs are chilled. I whisper my name, my address, the date and year, just to reassure myself I’m not hypothermic, and then head for shore. I pull off the gloves and release a glittering shower of warm water, then wrap the towel around my lower half, protection against the hard seabreeze that has now arrived. I unzip the wetsuit top, struggle out of it, wishing it was banana skin, pulling on the UV top which will keep me vaguely warm until I get home, five minutes away. But my body burns as the blood rushes round, zinging like bubbles in a champagne bottle – effervescent, sparkling, and I’m radiant with cold. This explosion of endorphins will stay with me all day. My skin is red and old scars flash iridescent blue and purple. My right index and middle fingers are cadaver white and will remain that way for a half an hour, making holding a cup of tea… interesting. At home, my little white and tan dog sniffs me, tastes the salty tang. Does he wish he’d been there too? I don’t know.

Because the tough thing at the moment is the Terrier. He is not himself – my funny little muse whose 13^th birthday is next Friday. The acute change in him in a week has knocked us sideways. He has been my sidekick unstintingly since he entered my life. More energy than you can possibly imagine.

After a day of sedation in the vet hospital, they found a grass-seed in the flesh between his toes, causing infection and pain. This year has been hard for him – progressive blindness and deafness causing him generalised anxiety with the consequent need to rely on my husband and I (but mostly me) to help him with sight and sound and if I’m not around, he’s lost. In addition, he is developing arthritis which occasions bouts of lameness and of course last summer he lost a nail sheath when he first developed SARD’s , needing a month off his (and my) beloved beaches. So much for him to cope with and by consequence, us. Age is a bitch!

Which reminds me of a beautiful column:

Care Instructions

I said to Lindsay that perhaps we all need to come with care instructions printed on a scarf or hankie so that we can carry them with us indefinitely.

Ballet? We dance we women. Till we drop…

Then there is the red handbag. It spoke to me, as these things do.

Sometimes a flash of colour is all one needs during a difficult week. Like the fiery chest of the Australian scarlet robin (Petroica boodang) which is now feeding in our garden. Red is a statement, don’t you think? Things are on notice. They have to improve…

In addition The Red Thread (RED!) has made it through to the Short List of the Ozma Awards. There’s still three levels to go and as I’ve said before, if this is it - Huzzah! If it makes it to semi-finals then wowsers! If it gets to finals… lordy, what does one say?

So yes. October does get in my blood, unapologetically. But not ruthlessly, despite my beloved dog. The thing about dogs is they wake up each morning and try to enjoy every single day to the best of their abilities. He’s a little teacher, is our boy…

Song for this week? I may have played this before: