Already October

I am done with the writing/yoga project The Light Within. Here is the final post. 

The Writer's Resist Anthology is available now. I might be part of a reading in Brooklyn on November 13. Stay tuned. 

I just checked the labels for this post, saw 5th grade as a tag I'd previously used, and wondered—why did I have 5th grade in there? I haven't posted in so long and Wally is only in 5th grade now. Then I remembered A Moveable Feast from more than 8 years ago, from the day we dug up the time capsule from 5th grade.

The cover photo on this blog is way out of date. I'll have to update it. Turning/returning to this blog feels like digging up a time capsule, almost. 

I always find it strange when I read an essay about raising young children and then go to the author's website and find out the children are teens now, sleeping in, playing video games all day. (This happened last year with Catherine Newman, Real Simple advice-giver and author of Catastrophic Happiness.)

I found the most wonderful post last night, written by Janell Burley Hofmann, author of iRules (a thoughtful approach to media use, adapted from the iPhone contract she gave her son). In Footsteps on the Stairs Hofmann writes: 

"As a new school year starts, I find myself, like I do every September, with a heightened level of awareness. Because before it even happens, it is already underway – beginnings into holidays, winter into final exams."

She describes the last hurrah of summer, kayaking in the creek. 

"I paddle towards their voices, wishing for many more years of knowing the sounds of their youth so intimately." 

I was going to name this post "Another September," a reference to those fleeting Septembers of years past. 

But September is already gone.

Hoffman's post was written at the end of September three years ago. 

I wonder if she still knows those "sounds of...youth so intimately."In those three years—an eternity in childhood temporarily—what has drastically changed, what everyday moments, what intimate connections, have already been consigned to fugitive memory.