On Seasons and Psychology

Some days, I just want to wake up and lay in bed all day long, listening to the rain tap a soft tune on my window. These days, I like to sit back and open the blinds, look through the fuzzy droplets that are making my front porch look all kinds of washed out colors. I love to see the little river that flows down the central courtyard and onto the side of my wall, down around to the backyard. I love to see the trees shaking and the flowers of the zarza, pink buds, flying around wildly like the weakest green leaves that were ripped off their stems by the hurricane-like wind.

On days like today, I love to be outside. It's so beautiful, so calm and peaceful and not humid and nasty. It's not Miami weather at all, that's what I love about it. Because I hate Miami. Anything that makes Miami less of Miami that it is makes me happy. It looks like a typical Georgia autumn day. There's sun, but it's not scorching hot, and the breeze hits just right when you're taking a walk around the rich neighborhood a couple of blocks down from your own. There's that certain crispness, that sharpness of the colors around you that light reflects so clearly. It's not muggy or mooshy or yucky like it is all summer long. It's fresh. It's new. It's almost inspirational, because it puts me in a helluva good mood. 

I love waking up to autumn, opening the front door and feeling the cool air lightly pat me on the cheek, coffee in one hand, towel and underwear in the other getting ready for a shower. I love closing the door back up and humming a little happy tune that lets everyone know I'm not my cranky self this morning. 

Autumn makes me happy. There's something about it that just does... I don't know what. Maybe it's a childhood psychological thing, I'm not too sure. But as far back as I can remember, I've always loved autumn best.