"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US" Wordsworth

I like to write. Actually, I don't write. I talk. It's like I have a quota of words I need to get out of me in order to take in more, through listening or reading.

So I sat down to write (to you, my conversation word partners) and I balked.
I looked out the window from my writing corner and saw the gold of a sun close to setting and the October black silhouette of a tree stripped of half of it's leaves and I fled. That is exactly how if felt. I fled. I escaped.  

I charged to the car, leaving a quick note for my husband and followed beauty.
I drove from one gorgeous Fall tree to another, stopping to walk when I couldn't stand being contained.  I stayed mostly in neighborhoods. I was starved for nature and hadn't known it and hadn't listened to it. It scared me to realize that a gorgeous Summer and Fall could be lost to me. My interior world had gotten too much attention. It was the kind of panic I get when I know I've wasted time or that I think I  missed the most important thing.  

Think how it must feel when you are dying and know it!  Did I spend time right?
Did I 'get' the beauty of life when it was right there for the taking?  Did I ignore the fact of an ending.  

Too philosophical about looking at Fall leaves? Not to me. Thank Goodness I have a kind of bullshit buzzer that goes off when I am betraying myself in some way and it nudges and nags and stymies me until I suddenly take action to 
have what I need.  We all know better.  We pledge to live more fully every time we realize there is an ending. 

Ninety minutes of unplanned meandering in beauty set me right.  Check your own bullshit buzzer's batteries. Turn it to loud. Respond. Reduce regret. Live.