Nature Chronicles: Itchy. That’s the mood tonight. Stillness, silence and time to swim in seasonal reflection.
From my usual rocking chair on the patio, everything looks a little spent. The trees droop like they’ve given all they had to summer, the grass has lost its shine, even the air feels tired; thick with the weight of endings. For a while, I blamed the view for the dullness I felt. The barren yard beside me. But tonight I turned the other way. Same yard, different story. The trees here belong to the squirrels and the birds; their branches curling protectively around this small, secret world. I like to think of my favorite squirrel Norton. I hope he’s made himself a soft spot to land, somewhere in this hush between seasons.
It’s strange how something as small as an itch can unravel peace. One moment I’m breathing in the night air, the next I’m certain something unseen is crawling beneath my skin. Maybe it’s just a bug. Maybe it’s something deeper; some deep anxiety striving to surface. My brain leaps straight to panic: are there bugs in this chair? Parasites? Why does a simple itch feel like the body’s way of whispering something isn’t right? It’s ridiculous, but the feeling is real. An itch becomes irritation, irritation becomes fear, and before I know it, my whole body is alive with unease.
October always seems to stir something restless inside me. It’s the month my mind decides to drag every buried thought into the light. A tiny itch becomes a metaphor for everything beneath the surface—grief I didn’t finish feeling, fears I thought I’d outgrown, questions that I can’t quite answer. The air feels charged with memory, like the world is reminding me that change, even the good kind, never comes without a little discomfort.
As seasonal reflection goes, maybe that’s what October is for—remembering that nothing stays comfortable forever. Every year it reminds me of mortality in its own quiet way. The trees let go, the light shifts, and the air grows thinner, and I feel myself doing the same. It’s not death exactly—it’s shedding. A rehearsal for all the letting go that life demands. Even the itch feels like part of it, the body’s small protest against impermanence.
By the end of the night, the panic settles. The itch fades, though I’m not sure it ever really was about the bugs. Maybe it was just another reminder that beauty doesn’t disappear, it only shifts. Sometimes you just have to turn your chair and face it anew. The air hums differently now. The trees breathe. I scratch one last time, laugh at myself, and let the night hold me exactly as I am: uneasy, alive, and still learning how to sit with both.
Reading and Journal Ideas:
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Walden by Henry David Thoreau
Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May
Five Minutes in the Evening: A Journal for Rest and Reflection
Reflection Prompt: What small discomfort lately has been trying to get your attention?