Hippo Chronicles v3

Autumn is the overlap.

2.

Autumn is the overlap.
Autumn is beginning and end.
3.

For me the year has always started in September, not
January. As student, lecturer and parent I have spent
most of my life bound by the academic calendar.
Pencils are sharpened and uniforms folded. The children
are packed off to school. The house returns to some kind
of routine after the free-spirited chaos of summer.
Stillness.
As a fresh page is turned on this new year, outside leaves
begin to fall, dancing their final display of yellows and
oranges and browns.
In the garden everything is quietening and as the smell
of bonfires and the mist of damp mornings rise, I feel
excitement about all that could be.
4.

5.

6.

Yesterday we sat in the sun while
the children played. We watched
as a tree from next door was
caught in a momentary breeze. A
confetti of gold and auburn filled
the air, sparkling in the sunlight,
being whipped higher above the
rooftops before slowly floating
down to earth.
I hold these moments as precious,
knowing soon we will be looking
at this glory from the other side
of the glass while we lean on
radiators to keep warm.
7.

Last Autumn found me tired.
By the time the children had been packed off to school
I was weary to my bones. I sat in front of the fire on
cold mornings, reading and thinking, and occasionally
dozing off. I had many plans for that Autumn term,
but found myself unable to pursue any of them.
The school week and all that it held was enough to fill
me. I felt the weight of everyone else’s needs heavily.
We had been moving a little too fast, expecting a little
too much of ourselves and I was paying the price.
On many days I was caught in the swirl of anxiety.
On other days I wondered what all the fuss was about,
I was capable and able and hadn’t there already been
too much time lost already to illness and exhaustion?
The narrative of illness then recovery then health
forevermore, is hard to let go of. But that long term,
when I had to go slower and cut more slack in my taut
expectation, reminded me yet again I am not one thing
or the other. I am not either ill or well, I am not either
on or off, I am not either sleeping or sprinting.
8.

9.

10.

I exist, like everyone else, in the in-between. In
the mix of good days and bad. I am learning,
evolving, growing.
I am human.
And I live in community with other humans.
Firstly, my husband and three children.
I am not an isolated vessel able to control all that
takes place. I am pushed and pulled and at times
completely overwhelmed by what is happening
in their worlds.
We are connected, their pain is mine to feel.
11.

This Autumn our family grew
and shrank.
My newest nephew arrived,
six weeks early, all five
pounds three ounces of him.
And three weeks later my
Nan passed away, five months
into her ninety-fifth year.
I wonder if she hung on
especially to meet her
fourteenth great grandchild,
these two lives overlapping,
defying predictions and
expectations.
12.

13.

14.

Dust to dust. Inhale and exhale.
15.

We are born from the breath. Stardust and
magic. An infinite number of tiny miracles
fusing and forming body and muscle and
brain under cover of darkness.
And we end with the breath. Leaving
treasure for our loved ones. A rich trail of
memories and wisdom. A path of gold, like
dust in the sunlight.
16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

To work outdoors at this time of year is a
gift not an expectation.
21.

Flower beds that were a riot of summer colour
are now muted, the brightness dial turned
down, bright pinks darkening to crimson. The
vegetables are a mixed bag. The beans have gone
to seed and become too much for their supports
to bear. The willow wigwam bends and bows
under the weight. The raspberries are over, and
the strawberries a distant memory. But the chard
is still going strong, and I have replanted more,
alongside a few extra beetroots and lettuces.
The early Autumn sun still enough to ripen and
provide treasures for a few more weeks.
I stand back with a cup of tea in hand, to inspect
my work so far. I feel the sun on my back, the
warmth of the mug in my hands. I see my breath
forming in front of me.
I dig up the weeds and cut back the perennials
that have been allowed to spread, and I think
about the year gone by.
And I look forward to the year ahead.
How will this next year shape and change us?
Where will our hard work ripen to fruitfulness?
22.

23.

24.

We are in the overlap.
The garden knows this. As plants die back, space
is already being made ready for what has yet to
be imagined.
One year’s finale holding hands with the coming
year’s potential.
25.

26.

For the first time in many years my
husband and I find ourselves in the same
place: the land of the well.
We know this isn’t a complete, fixed state,
but on the whole our days are easier,
our load lighter. We have energy for the
children and can think about what this
next season will hold.
I am reminding myself that both states
are allowed: this vitality we are now
experiencing and last year’s exhaustion. All
of it. In sickness and in health. Neither is
better or worse. It just is.
And I am learning to accept the whole
bag, the complete offering.
27.

28.

Back in the garden I am
clearing the ground now,
preparing the beds.
I rake and hoe and dig. I work
until my muscles ache and
my fingernails are black with
dirt. I work looking forward,
making space for the new
ideas that are yet to germinate.
The year lies ahead, waiting
and welcoming.
And before the final leaves fall,
I am making plans.
I am turning the soil.
I am planting seeds.
29.

Words and photography: Elli Johnson