|Hat: Goorin Brothers; Shirt: Nick & Mo; Blazer, brooch, and coloured ring: vintage; Diamond ring: Effy; Earrings: I can't remember; Pants: Reitmans; Boots: Ecco|
It still feels like falling into a soft, downy bed: just right.
I've always loved autumn in general. One of my very earliest memories is of listening to the roar of the autumn wind in the maple trees. This was when I still lived in New England. We don't have maple trees here unless they've been deliberately planted. I admit that fall is not as spectacular here as it is back east. We don't have whole mountainsides turn red like you folks in New York do. It's the only time I get a little homesick for the home of my very early childhood.
Still, even here, I love the smells, the colours, the leaves, the light. I even love that weird, melancholy feeling one always gets in the fall. You know what I mean: that feeling of the tenuousness of beauty and of life itself, the feeling that one must grasp at all this loveliness before it passes into lifeless winter.
Poets have spent lifetimes trying to capture that feeling in words and I just spent quite a while writing that last sentence. We writers will always fail because it's a feeling beyond words. You know it when you smell the fallen leaves and breathe the golden air. But you just can't put it into words
Of course, fall is far less melancholy where I live. We don't really have winter here. Really, we just have a short summer, a very long autumn, and a very long spring. I can look forward to the crocus shoots poking up in January here.
I can also look forward to a LOT of rain, but I don't really mind that so much, not if it means more clement weather and foliage thriving right through the winter season.
But, you know, I can't quite believe it is fall yet. The older I get, the faster the seasons come and go.
Time feels different now, doesn't it? It's not endless. Things can pass me by so quickly, I miss them.
That's part of why I like writing my blog. It forces me to slow down and look at the small details, including the changing seasons.
For instance, I only seem to notice this weird tree's fall flowers (or are they fruit?) when I'm wearing something that matches them.
What the heck is this tree? I have no idea. Do tell me if you know. It's furry! What tree is furry?
And, like all life on this rainy west coast, it itself fosters further life. I assume this is some sort of lichen? Yes? No?
And it seems to me that the texture of the lichen is echoed in the Brutalist style brooch I chose to go with my highly textured, richly coloured, wool tweed blazer. I like to slow down to notice things like that.
Some might say this blazer is a little over the top, and even more so with the hat and flaming orange shirt. I say, "Whatever!" It's my body and I'll adorn it if I want to. And I want to adorn it with tweed. I love tweed.
As usual, wearing fun and interesting clothing helps me cope with my chronic pain and PTSD. This is a blurry photo of me hauling myself up a set of stairs: not an easy task for me.
In this photo, I look as I generally feel these days: wan, tired, depleted, in pain...
... but, for some reason I really can't even understand myself, tenacious and stubborn too.
You may have noticed that this image -- my stylishly clad feed astride the "keep out" lightning bolts -- has become a sort of visual trademark for me. For the sexually abused, the power to say "keep out," even if only years after the fact of the abuse, is a powerful and wonderful feeling.
Like autumn, it's a melancholy, bittersweet feeling, but it's somehow good, useful, helpful.
And so, in my funky brown cords, caramel coloured boots (with matching satchel purse, natch), and over the top tweed, I found some beauty in yet another day, despite the coming winter.
I'm linking this up to Hat Attack at the Style Crone, and Visible Mondays at Not Dead Yet, because I want the whole world to see this tweed.