I got my purple Patagonia coat out of the closet this morning. They call it a mid-layer coat – one intended for seasons of transition. A light jacket of sorts, not too puffy, one that serves as a trusted friend from September to November. I feel like I just hung it up to wait, back at the end of May.

This summer went fast. And with it were hot days, a few spent at the edge of a baby wading pool. Now, clouds are rolling in, and leaves are quivering, wondering what change awaits them.

I’m in that season too – of transition and wondering and closing different roles out. One phrase that mothers my age keep using is ‘carving out time.’ I get images of matrons using giant knives to widdle away pieces of time on their busy calendars – filled with obligations and responsibilities not of their own choosing. I stand, at the end of the line, with my post-partum hair re-growing, saying wait a minute – what if we didn’t have to work so hard to carve?

Instead, I’m reclaiming – closing doors and using my fingers to pry more space for myself into a day. Like a little kid sculpting a thumb clay pot, I hold the materials of my life, warming in my palms. I’m not sure what shape it will make.

In the show Working Mom’s, one of the characters attends pottery class for theraputic reasons. Each week she brings home a large ball of clay. “It soothes her” she says. But people want her to have created something by the time she’s ready to leave the class, and each week, she insists in returning to the big ball.

This is where I’m at, standing with the ball of clay.

Finding space to apply my fingerprints, in the doorway in my purple coat. A beautiful thing.