A surprising thing: the return of evening rehearsals has given me, unexpectedly, the time I was hoping to have all summer. In the mornings I often putter around the kitchen, making food for the week and listening to the radio. I can opt to work a long day -- a normal 9-5 plus rehearsal, and then have a second whole day to myself (in addition to the one day I get off a week during production times). I can go for a run and then drive out to the garden, to sigh sadly over my eternally green tomatoes. I had been in many ways dreading the return of opera season; summer felt too short and too cold, and I already didn't have enough time for everything, without the inclusion of rehearsals. It turns out I've gotten so used to this schedule that I've grown to prefer it.
This time of year -- you know, it pains me to say it, but I love it. Memory plays a large part: I moved here at the beginning of October, five years ago. Every year these last few weeks of September and first few of October enchant me. It's cooler, and raining, but the world hasn't quite shaken off the last fine filaments of summer. The air smells like leaves. Mid-morning runs through the woods are damp and earthy, and afterwards there's mud up and down your legs.
Pagliacci/Carmina Burana opens on Friday. Contrary to tradition, I have not yet bought myself a new opening night dress. (I buy one new one at the start of every opera season). Partially this is because I have at least 15 suitable dresses in my closet; but mostly it's because I'd like to save my prettiest dress-wearing moments for when a certain someone comes back from the other side of the planet, which he'll do in two weeks exactly. Not that I'm counting.