Love Bites: To Squirrel

When the year turns – after Mazu’s birthday in the spring, Mangzong in the summer, and here again passing Samhain – I find myself in quietness. And regarding that, I have no regret, because when love was in full summer’s bloom, I had already stocked up like a squirrel preparing for the cold.

Autumn and winter have always been solemn, solitary seasons for me, perhaps because I live in gaps. Friends return home to their crowded family holidays, while my own family far away are too busy preparing for the lunar year’s end to notice this lone wanderer abroad. The drop in temperature quiets the city, pushing people back into their caves, leaving diasporas and drifters often with only ourselves for company. Then, there is the gap between states of mind: one side soaked in warmth and happiness, the other drowning in unrest, where simply surviving is enough. Perhaps that’s why the change in season feels heavier, this time when I’m falling into these gaps; perhaps that’s how I learned to store love like seeds, to keep it growing.

I look back to this summer in Scotland. I loved it when we grabbed each other’s arms to tie two yachts together and raced the jellyfish beneath the waves, after our first attempts at paddle-boarding the freezing open water. I loved it on a hot sunny day when the circle of dancers on the square pulled me in, and laughter made space for silence, so that even empty pockets or heavy thoughts did not exclude me. I tuck these kernels away. I’ve heard squirrels do not always remember every seed they hide, but what they forget is never wasted. It feeds other creatures through the winter, or sprouts into trees after some time; that is the abundance I now trust. Even when silent, forgotten, or unseen, love can still nourish and take root. And so the love I’ve stored keeps me company through the winter, and then one day, when summer blooms again, I’ll be ready to join.