Chicago in Autumn

I have been a part of A Writing Room for almost two years now. I am actually writing this post during a silent writing session with the group, which is when we come together on Zoom and write for an hour together. As I build my coaching business and my writing practice, these silent writing sessions are my way to connect with other humans throughout the week. I am really grateful for that. I also have learned so much with this group and feel SO fortunate to be in this creative space with such talented individuals.

One of the group members is a woman named Karen Loucks Rinedollar. Last month she put out a very interesting invitation to the group, to contribute writing pieces on where we each were on the morning of September 11, 2001. She collected the pieces and published this anthology online.

I contributed to that collection, and a couple weeks ago Karen put out another call- to write uplifting pieces about autumn. I contributed to that as well! Working on these pieces I was struck by one predominate feeling, and it surprised me. I felt connected, and along with that, accepted. What a beautiful experience of community, to connect with others on these shared themes and with a timeline!

Both collections are available on Amazon. Proceeds to to support the charity Project Linus, which Karen founded (also amazing).

Where We Were - Near and Far: Memories of September 11, 2001: A Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Collection

Harvest Moon: Cozy Autumn Stories to Bring Us a Little Bit Closer

Perhaps you swap out your evening scroll with reading Harvest Moon. It’s worth a try to see what that brings you.

And as a sneak peek- here is my contribution to Harvest Moon.

Chicago in Autumn

This morning I will walk past the squirrels of Chicago’s Dearborn Park on my way to the grocery store. I will find them scurrying to bury acorns in secret locations that only they will remember come January. Like them, I sense the change. Autumn is here.

Outside our Jewel-Osco grocery store in the South Loop sits a giant cardboard box almost as big as me, bulging at the seams from the pumpkins it holds. I imagine how funny it would look to roll a pumpkin all the way home on its side, similar to what Linus does at the beginning of It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Instead, I grab a box of pumpkin-flavored cookies, as my kids prefer sweets to gourds. This also removes any risk of their friends seeing me heave a pumpkin back across Dearborn Park to our apartment building. As a parent of teenagers, I must consider this.

To be able to twist apples from their branches and wipe away the cinnamon sugar remnants of a fresh cider mill doughnut, we leave the city by way of the Dan Ryan expressway and travel across the toll road to northern Indiana and southwestern Michigan. The annual trip to the orchard is assigned a day on our calendar with the same priority as high school tours and homecoming and soccer games. We make it happen.

Twenty years ago, my husband and I moved to Chicago. It was the beginning of summer. Sailboats dotted the lake and boisterous conversation spilled out of open bar and restaurant windows onto the sidewalk. I was fresh out of graduate school and, like our Dearborn Park squirrels, did my own frenetic scampering as I got myself set up in my new job. My breath hitched anytime I turned the corner and saw the dark and intimidating buildings of downtown. Any intricate stone carvings and reclaimed brick from the post-fire era that I may have passed escaped my notice. I saw only harsh steel and glass.

That fall, the city and I became more friendly, as though we finally spoke after weeks of bumping into each other at a coffee shop. We both softened in that angled sunlight. I learned that to leave the bus I had to pull the cord and wait for the light near the back door to turn green. The Streetwise newspapers were $2 and the Art Institute was closed on Tuesdays. Pequods made the best pizza. The evening sun and the Chicago River reflected off the buildings downtown, sprinkling hints of aqua and rose that emerged when I relaxed my eyes like an unexpected image from a Magic Eye book.

My feet settled into a rhythm. Trains rumbled past and threw off sparks, sirens wailed, and still I walked. The cacophony settled into the background, leaves blew in the wind.

Chicago became my city in the fall.

Before long, we will tuck ourselves away for the winter. As I watch the squirrels in Dearborn Park, an awareness settles in. My husband and I will soon be on our own again, without our pups. Years pass by so quickly. This is midlife, and I allow myself to receive the abundance of this season. I am calm. I gather my acorns with intention and sneak them away. These gifts will last me into the quiet months.

Fall is the in-between. Here in Chicago, we prepare and we connect. We still carry our whistles from last year. We cheer for our neighbors and welcome our visitors on marathon day. We stand in the warm sunlight for as long as we can. Lake Michigan alternates between the kindness of months past and the churning of months to come. The wind is coming. Soon it will be dark.

We will be ready.

Taken from Dearborn Park