Fall is here.
You can see it arriving before the temperature fully agrees.
Halloween decorations begin appearing on porches. Balloons drift across the morning sky. Grocery stores stack bags of freshly roasted green chile near the entrance, and the smell follows you all the way to the car.
Soon, there will be green chile stew.
There should always be green chile stew.
But for me, the changing season brings something else.
What I call the change-in-the-weather flu.
I know this is not an official medical diagnosis. No doctor has ever looked over a clipboard and solemnly announced that I have a severe case of autumn.
Still, I know what I feel.
The scratchy throat.
The stuffy head.
The sudden desire to remain on the couch and cancel every responsibility that requires shoes.
It seems to happen whenever the weather begins changing its mind. The afternoons are still warm, but the mornings have developed an attitude. You leave home dressed for summer and return wondering why you did not bring a jacket.
Mother Nature is rearranging the furniture.
My body notices.
Over the years, I have developed my own treatment plan.
It begins with homemade chicken soup.
Nothing elaborate. This is not the time for culinary ambition. The soup only needs to be hot, comforting, and able to make me believe I am taking care of myself.
Something about chicken soup feels older than medicine.
Maybe it is the steam rising from the bowl. Maybe it is the warmth settling into your chest. Maybe it is simply the memory of being cared for.
Sometimes comfort works because we remember it working before.
Then comes green tea with lemon and honey.
The honey soothes my throat. The lemon brings a little brightness. The warm cup gives my hands something to hold while I sit beneath a weighted blanket and consider whether I have the strength to choose another show.
I usually do.
Binge-watching is an important part of recovery.
The show does not have to be especially good. In fact, it may be better if it is not. A complicated plot requires attention, and I don’t have it when my head feels stuffed with cotton.
I need something familiar.
Something that will continue playing if I fall asleep halfway through and wake up three episodes later with no idea what happened.
The weighted blanket completes the prescription.
Something about its gentle pressure makes the couch feel less like a place where I have collapsed and more like a place where I have intentionally chosen to recover.
That distinction matters.
We sometimes treat rest as though it must be earned. We push ourselves until our bodies make the decision for us. Then we lie down reluctantly, still thinking about everything we should be doing.
But the changing seasons offer their own instruction.
Slow down.
Make something warm.
Pull the blanket a little higher.
Let the world continue without your supervision for an afternoon.
Perhaps my change-in-the-weather flu is simply Mother Nature’s way of telling me that summer is over.
The long days are shortening. The air is cooling. The season of open windows and cold drinks is giving way to soup, tea, blankets, and the quiet comfort of staying home.
Outside, the balloons will rise.
The Halloween decorations will multiply.
Somewhere, someone will begin making the first pot of green chile stew.
And I will be on the couch with my tea, my soup, and my weighted blanket, accepting the message my body has been trying to deliver.
Fall has arrived.
Apparently, it would like me to sit down.
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