Even when you aren’t a kid anymore and don’t yet have kids and aren’t a teacher or a lunch lady or a bus driver or a crossing guard or that kindly older lady who helps out the slow kids at lunch and makes bulletin board announcements out of construction paper and macaroni, September feels like the end of fun and back to business month. In New England the air is crisp, the leaves are altering, falling, dying, being ordered into tidy piles by adults and summarily scattered by overzealous children whose new shoes seemed just too new and shiny. Mellow fruitfulness is in the air, even when you’re far away. The season and routine and tradition conspire to make an impression on your mind that must last a lifetime. It feels like change is brewing.

We are trying to make choices about where to go and what to do this weekend, this holiday season, next year. Should we travel to Xcaret, London, New Zealand, Maine, Montreal, New York or Buenos Aires?

Should I get this Nia thing going here or wait till I am someplace where it might be easier? Do we keep this house or buy a few rows back, where the unpredictable ocean and salt spray are not so problematic? Should we rent a house in Merida, in Colonia Mexico, where you can get a little place in a charming neighborhood close to good restaurants and shopping? Where do I want to spend Christmas? Can you go home again for the holidays? I know how lucky I am to have so many options and for so much possibility to seem so overwhelming at times. I actually feel excited, motivated and like we are allowing wonderful things to happen in our lives and that the choices that we do make are getting more right all the time.

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