It is the time of year when things linger . . .
. the lingering fragrance of bergamot in the Earl Grey tin;
. the lingering burn of green chili on the skin of my hands, after (lingeringly) seeding and peeling the half bushel I had roasted on Sunday—another of the best smells in the world.
It's time to slow down, to appreciate every last drop of things. I've pulled out my worn old t-shirt from the Thoreau Sauntering Society, pronouncing "It's a great art to saunter." Lingering and sauntering are much the same, the art of painstaking, of woolgathering too, of noting what is here, today, the last day of summer, and might not be here tomorrow or the day after, so should be paid close attention to. (Don't end sentences with prepositions, unless you want to. As my dear father used to say, quoting I don't know who, "What did you bring the books I didn't want to be read to out of up for?" Words, too, are fun to linger in, saunter among.)
"To make longer," the German word for linger meant. And also "to long." I love that, longing to make longer—that's what autumn's all about.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Thendara Sky