Ode to Liminal Space

My birthday is next week and I’m trying to wrap up as many projects as possible before the holidays swallow my attention whole. Between the hectic moments, finding any kind of solace outside feels nearly impossible. Today it’s raining, the wind cuts, and the evening can barely claw its way into the high 20s. It’s not exactly the picture of a beautiful day

But this is when I made it earthside.

I was born in the interstitial space between fall and winter. The autumn colors have faded into desaturated browns and grays, but a clean sheet of snow is still far off. Climate change can be a bitch because I remember early birthdays with a lot more ice. I want to like this season. I want to forget that I never had sunny outdoor birthdays at state parks or splash pads. Being born now means sharing space with Thanksgiving leftovers and Christmas anticipation. It means sunsets at 4:45.

For a long time I hated the landscape during this stretch of the year. When I lived in the Pittsburgh suburbs, winter brought about all the charm of a gulag courtyard. The Allegheny vernacular mill houses are not at their best against a flat gray sky. It wasn’t until I moved somewhere more remote, more wooded and less fenced-in, that I started to see this season differently.

The problem is that it is almost impossible to capture. Early winter has a quiet kind of beauty and the colors are there if you look closely. Rust. Lichen gray. White birch cutting through maroon hillsides. The deep green of mature conifers. It isn’t dead. It hides. And I am frustrated that I can’t make it look the way it feels.

Not miserable. Not cold.
Just the in-between.