The Season Between

September is one of my favorite months. It’s the prelude to an important time of the year: transformation October.

I’ve always had a special relationship with October. It has been the month, aside from my birth month, which has given me endless cycles of renewal, both metaphysically and ethereally. As with all things related to duality, it hasn’t only given life but has taken it too; October has left two life-altering scars on me which I’ve never been able to recover from.

In short, the harvest cycle is a passage of time when the most rewards are given, but the price for such rewards is high. In contrast, September is a gentler month. It reminds me of an autumn-gold gondolier, calmly sailing beneath a Venetian bridge that’s suspended between the seasons of life and death.

This September, as with all Septembers, I’ve been preparing myself for my new evolution. After a difficult year of enduring life’s tribulations, I haven’t felt much like transitioning. In fact, I haven’t felt much inspiration to do much beyond lounge in this disappointing chapter, feeling woeful and depleted. But September has rescued me, and within that salvage, I’ve become excited to contemplate my next phase of self.

There’s much I want to do. Some superficial, others imperative. An example of the swinging pendulum is wanting to cut my hair off and dye it caramel-blonde, then prepare my body so I can plan for two surgeries that are long overdue. I want to become physically well, and then I want to become physically impressive, like Iris Kyle or Elisa Pecini. Or maybe I want to become me—the real me—beneath all this blubber, disfiguration, and illness.

The problem isn’t having clarity or motivation to succeed with upcycling myself, but rather the other obstacles I must face. Nonetheless, I remain optimistic that the season of renovation will aid me, which is a pleasant feeling to have after such a long dance with hopelessness.

September, as calm as it is, arrived boisterously. By the third day, I had broken through my own consciousness. Each day since, I’ve crawled, mostly on my belly, to small milestones of self-improvement. With each milestone reached, I’ve felt more connected to myself. That’s when I decided to open myself up spiritually again. After 8 months of depression, would I be able to meditate? Could I communicate with the divine after such a detrimental break?

I took the day to prepare. After cleaning my space and temple, I showered, washed my hair, and marked my face and hands with ceremonial symbols. Sitting in the room where my temple is centered, I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing. The silence drowned out all thoughts and distractions.

I did a light ceremony called ancestral meditation, and suddenly, the vibrations of the cosmos pulsated throughout my body. I began that September morning with a sense of stagnancy, then I found myself on the cusp of renewal, rebuilding myself under the soothing guidance of my ever-loving ancestors. It felt good, in a steady way, not as if a short-circuit of adrenaline coursed through my body only to burn out.

While meditating, I thought about who I want to be in this next phase of life. I asked myself the big questions, intuitively listening for my inner self to answer. Where do I want to be? What do I want from life? How can I make it happen?

I want to be physically improved, and although it isn’t possible, I imagined myself emancipated from my debilitating illness. I thought about the power my body once had and how I wish to restore what of it I can. There were visions of me running through the Royal Parks of London, sprinting through groves alive with squirrels and acorns. Could I really reverse my disability? I doubt it. That would take a miracle. Then again, I do believe in miracles; why shouldn’t one happen to me?

Other than making the unconscious conscious, I’ve also been enjoying September’s rupture of color; a fiery supernova, coloring the world anew. The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to yourself, and September is an example of that, reminding me to be brave with my own adaptation, encouraging my shapeless outline to inhabit something innovative. September, for all its greatness, reminds me to accept myself as I am, to love myself completely, and to embrace the metamorphosis, even if it’s painful.

There’s another part of September I enjoy, too. The way everything smells of apples, cinnamon, and brown sugar. Wherever I go, whether it’s to visit a friend's home, with their autumn-scented candles burning, or into a store at the mall, there’s the rich bouquet of autumn, reinforcing the conversion of one season to the next.

Now that September is ready to make its final curtain call, I consider it has been a good month. As the handover approaches, I anticipate what’s to come. The prospect is both exciting and terribly daunting. I don’t yet know if I will emerge whole, scarred, or something entirely new—but I know I will emerge. I’ll become. And I’ll transform.