It’s an early-October, golden evening. It’s the time of year when leaves scatter, and the earth changes into beautiful shades of burnt orange. Yellow mums decorate my front porch, and pumpkins will soon follow. Cooler days are just around the corner. When I was a teenager, this was my favorite time of year. I still love the scenery fall delivers, as well as the desire for all things warm and comforting; however, over the past few years, I’ve noticed that I develop a deep, inexplicable sadness during the fall and winter months. It begins with these golden evenings.

I’m listening to John Paul White’s “Beulah” on vinyl. The sadness and haunting in his voice suits my mood. His dark, melancholy lyrics welcome me into the place not many are willing to go. Raw. Real. Honest. I admit trying to avoid that place. It’s lonely there. I’ve listened to the album over and over today, trying to remember how to write, how to be real, how to be me.