It’s early afternoon, and the house is quiet. Mom is asleep, and Dad’s out running around. At least for me, this is a treat. I’m at the kitchen table, the trees in the backyard are letting go of their leaves, and Fleetwood Mac is playing beside me on my phone. I guess at some point every gay man has to fall in love with Stevie Nicks, one of the club requirements as it were. For me it happened just over a year ago before I moved out of The Big House and had the estate sale. At that point I had a record player I inherited from a family friend named Faye Marie. She took care of my Dad when he was growing up, she’s where my sister’s middle name (Marie) came from, and she’s all over our family photos. When she died I got the record player, a lamp, and a vintage alarm clock, all of which were later sold in my estate sale. Still, the last thing I did with Faye Marie’s record player was put on Stevie Nicks. Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Listening to Stevie sing on my phone isn’t quite the same as hearing her on vinyl, and sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake getting rid of that phonograph and all my records. For the most part I don’t miss the things I sold, but sometimes I do. There was something comfortable about coming home, falling down on my sofa for the hundredth time, and seeing my books on the bookshelf that used to hold my Legos, the one with the desk where I used to do homework in high school. It was familiar. Ultimately, I’m glad those things are gone (dusting is easier now), and I’m glad I had a choice in the matter. Some friends recently had their house broken into, and many of their cherished things were taken. Unlike me, they were forced to let go. I guess this is what happens when we die. Even if you manage to keep your things with you for a hundred years, sooner or later the two of you have to go separate ways.

At some point in human history, people noticed there was a mathematical order to the heavens, that the moon cycled every so many days, that the planets traveled certain paths, and that the seasons consistently changed. As I understand it, the priests were the astrologers, and most the celebrations, rituals, and holidays were centered around heavenly events as an affirmation of what was inevitable. (If you can’t beat it, join it.) As I sit here now, it’s late fall–the sun is shining, but the air is chilly. Personally, I hate the cold. I’m really looking forward to the winter solstice, the day that marks the point when “the sun” is reborn and the days start getting longer. Even more so, I’m looking forward to spring. Warmth! Still, there’s nothing I can do to change the seasons or hurry them along. Things happen when they happen.

Yesterday my therapist said that I’m in a weird period right now, that I had reasonable plans last year, but then a bunch of shit happened. (Shit happens.) So now I’m with Mom and Dad, trying to make this writing thing work. My therapist said, “I really don’t think it’s matter of if, but rather a matter of when.” Of course, I hope she’s right. Regardless, part of me knows that this is just a season, that things will eventually change into something else, but another part of me feels as if this winter will never relent.

Often it’s easy for me to forget this isn’t my first winter, that I’ve been through the ringer of life more than once. Having let go of most of my worldly possessions, I know I can let go of the idea of spring, at least until she’s ready to return to me. Perhaps this is what hope looks like, trusting that she’ll indeed return one day, that I’ll fall down on my own sofa again soon, that everything under heaven will circle back around. In the meantime, it’s me, the winter, and Stevie Nicks. Personally, I’m trying to remember that each season has something to offer, that every tree has to let go of its leaves before they can grow back again, and that every changing season is one I can handle.