At the end of October I drive two hours to wander the botanical garden. I sit at the top of a hill and listen for something that feels like answers to questions I haven’t asked, but all I can hear is the traffic. The air is damp, the clouds mutter maledictions in the distance and I just sit there.

I came here to find something, some feeling, some inspiration in art or nature. I grip the map in my hands until the paper begins to fray. How am I supposed to find myself when these days I can’t even find my way out of bed.

A tour guide passes, describes Rodin’s “Eve” as sad. Eve stands there covering her naked, bronze body and hiding her face and I suppose you could see “sad,” but I sit behind her and see her fingers clawing her ribcage, as if to pull the covers of her skin back over her body, curl away in anguish and hide and I understand. I pull my jacket closer around my own body and move down the path.

The silence is broken by black walnuts hitting soft earth. Crack. Above me, a squirrel tests the thinner branches at the top. Crack. He wants, but is unsure. Crack. He decides the reward is not worth the risk, finds another branch to hold him. Crack. I put away my pen and empty notebook.

I love the transitional seasons and the way they make me feel like something is coming.. This morning the red trees set the horizon on fire, by evening, that fire is extinguished. When I leave the garden, there is no heat left in the ashes.