Waiting for Autumn Read online

  WAITING

  FOR

  AUTUMN

  WAITING

  FOR

  AUTUMN

  scott blum

  HAY HOUSE, INC.

  Carlsbad, California • New York City

  London • Sydney • Johannesburg

  Vancouver • Hong Kong • New Delhi

  Copyright © 2009 by Scott Blum

  Published and distributed in the United States by: Hay House, Inc.: www.hayhouse.com • Published and distributed in Australia by: Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd.: www.hayhouse.com.au • Published and distributed in the United Kingdom by: Hay House UK, Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.uk • Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by: Hay House SA (Pty), Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.za • Distributed in Canada by: Raincoast: www.raincoast.com • Published in India by: Hay House Publishers India: www.hayhouse.co.in

  Design: Amy Rose Grigoriou

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.

  The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Blum, Scott.

  Waiting for autumn / Scott Blum.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4019-2270-2 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Young adults-Fiction. 2. Ashland (Or.)--Fiction. 3. Spiritual direction--Fiction. 4. New Age fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.l864W35 2009

  813’.6--dc22

  2008022273

  ISBN: 978-1-4019-2270-2

  12 11 10 09 4 3 2 1

  1st edition, April 2009

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PREFACE

  Many people have asked me if the following story is fact or fiction, and I always find that a difficult question to answer. The truth for me is not limited by the physical world, but is instead embodied by energy, floating in the gaps between time and space on that elusive river of intention. And the energy contained in these pages is as real as any light I have seen, song I have heard, or fruit I have tasted. It is true that I have used a fictional thread to stitch these words together into a fabric that is easier to appreciate, and it’s also true that many of the events described have actually happened in a form most people could relate to. But for me that is of little importance, as the underlying energy is, and has always been, my truth.

  I hope you will enjoy reading my truth and will soon be inspired to listen to your own.

  CHAPTER ONE

  He was the happiest homeless person I had ever seen. His smile was warm and friendly, and his shoulder-length hair matched his matted red beard. Although he seemed to be wearing the same ratty brown clothes from the day before and smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a week, something about his water-blue eyes put me at ease.

  As I carried my groceries across the Co-op parking lot, I read the hand-lettered cardboard sign he was holding:

  Always receive with grace.

  His smile widened knowingly as I walked past, and when I looked down, I noticed a small black puppy asleep at his feet. Once I was nearly past him, I whispered to myself, “That’s ironic.”

  “What’s ironic?” he asked.

  Startled, I took another step, hoping to act like I didn’t hear him.

  “What’s ironic?” he repeated.

  I stopped and slowly turned around. Embarrassed, I said, “It’s ironic that you’re giving advice on how to receive, when you’re asking for money.”

  “I’m not asking for anything,” he smirked. “Right now I’m giving.”

  I took the bait without even thinking. “So when are you going to give me something?”

  “I already have, but you wouldn’t accept it in the manner it was offered.”

  “Oh, I think you’re mistaken—you definitely haven’t given me anything. Perhaps you confused me with someone else.”

  “No, I didn’t confuse you with anyone else!” He was clearly annoyed. “Please leave now; I’m very busy.”

  I looked around and there wasn’t anyone within 100 yards of us.

  “Please leave now,” he repeated and turned away from me.

  Embarrassed, I carried my groceries up the hill to my apartment. I didn’t know what I’d said to offend him, but he clearly wasn’t happy with the way I had handled myself.

  When I returned to the apartment, I was still profoundly disturbed by what had happened. I tried to shake it off and convince myself that he was probably just confusing me with someone else. I wanted to forget about it and go on with my day, but I simply couldn’t. I didn’t usually care what other people thought of me, but I had a strange connection to him and didn’t want to let it go.

  Less than an hour later, I picked up my wallet and made my way back down the hill. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, but I had to try.

  I was relieved to see his matted red hair and his small black puppy as I approached the Co-op. As I got closer, I saw that he had a new sign that read:

  I want an orange.

  What do you want?

  I smiled and thought that this was a good idea for a peace offering. I went into the store and bought the best navel I could find and picked up a few odds and ends I hadn’t had room to carry before.

  As I passed through the glass double doors, I tossed him the orange and decided to give it another shot. “Here you go,” I said as the orange left my hand.

  “Thanks.” He smiled, and genuinely seemed grateful for the orange. “That’s the best thing that happened to me all day.”

  His words instantly made me feel much better, and I decided to be a bit playful.

  “So you can help me get what I want?” I smirked.

  “Of course I can.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “You can manifest anything you want.”

  “Oh, really? Why don’t you do it?”

  “I do, every day.”

  “Then why are you still homeless?”

  “Why do you think I’m homeless?”

  Oh dear, I thought. I would definitely need to watch my words more carefully if I was going to spend more time with him.

  “What do you manifest?” I asked, trying my best to change the subject.

  “Today I manifested an orange.”

  I laughed. “All you did was write a sign that said you wanted an orange.”

  “And you gave me one. So clearly I was successful at manifesting.” He smiled proudly.

  “So if I want a million dollars, all I have to do is make a sign that says ‘Give me a million dollars’ and someone will just give it to me?”

  “Do you believe that will happen?”

  “Of course not! There’s no way some guy is going to see a sign and give me a million bucks!”

>   “Then you answered your own question.”

  “So you agree—you can’t just make anything you want appear out of nowhere.”

  “No. I simply agree you don’t believe that’s the right way to manifest a million dollars. Manifesting isn’t about making a halfhearted effort and then failing. Manifesting is about aligning your goals and your destiny so they become one. You have to believe without a doubt and act without pause, or else you’re wasting your time. Do you really want a million dollars?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have an orange, and it doesn’t look like you have anywhere near a million dollars in your pocket.”

  Perhaps he had a point.

  “What do you really want?” His eyes felt like they were drilling holes straight through me.

  “To be happy,” I answered after a long pause.

  “Now that’s something I can help you with. Once you’re honest with yourself, you’re halfway there.

  “I’m Robert,” he said with his hand outstretched.

  “I’m Scott.” I shook his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Scott. And this is my puppy, Don. Come back here tomorrow around the same time, and I’ll have something for you.”

  As I walked away, I was both intrigued by and afraid of how drawn to Robert I was. There was something foreign to me about how open and warm people in Ashland were, and I was still getting used to it. Back in Los Angeles, I had grown comfortable with the blanket of anonymity provided by the city crowds. And when I first discovered how friendly the people were in this small mountain town of southern Oregon, I felt ashamed by how closed off I had become over the years and vowed to open back up. In this town, nobody knew how jaded and distrusting I’d been in L.A., and I wanted to reinvent myself as a friendly person who only saw the good in others. It was a great mental exercise and almost immediately began to give me back some of the optimism of my childhood. I decided to hold on to that ideal as I made my way back up the hill and continued to unpack more boxes.

  I loved my new apartment, and it was in a great location, only three short blocks from Lithia Park in the northerly hills above downtown Ashland. Tucked between mature oaks on a tree-lined street, the pale yellow duplex was much larger than I was used to and seemed more like a house than an apartment—especially with its huge backyard. The bedroom had a great view, and the apartment was also monthto-month, so if Ashland didn’t work out, I could always continue on my journey north and wouldn’t be stuck there for more than a month at a time.

  A few days earlier I had been on my way to Portland to start my life over after once again losing my job in the coldhearted entertainment industry. Ever since I moved to Los Angeles, a string of bad luck prevented me from keeping a job for more than a few months at a time. There were always budget reasons, but the truth was, I never found a niche in any of the companies I worked at and was always the first to go if times got tough. And because I had a knack for always picking the wrong employer, I would be out of work more often than not.

  Finally, I promised myself that if I lost my job again, I would leave the city before my savings dwindled to the point where I would never be able to do so. Luckily, one of the first people I’d met in Los Angeles was a young, ambitious band manager named Clark. He worked at the same record label I did when I first arrived in L.A., and he was always working on a get-rich-quick scheme. We hit it off pretty quickly, but when we met, he was already on his way out. He’d had his fill of the Hollywood scene and decided to move to Portland to start an independent record label to take advantage of the city’s burgeoning music scene. He had offered me a job as soon as he got his new company set up in Oregon, and I finally decided to take him up on it after I received my most recent two weeks’ notice. I just threw everything I could fit into a U-Haul trailer and started driving north. I was gone within a day of losing my job, without even bothering to say goodbye to anyone I knew.

  After driving twelve hours straight, I crossed the California-Oregon border, and my old Volvo dramatically died on the Siskiyou mountain pass after a loud explosion and a huge plume of thick black smoke. I should have stopped at a gas station to check my car before starting up the summit, as I was already familiar with how hard the Siskiyous were on old cars. I’d grown up in a small town in Northern California about fifty miles south of the Oregon border, so I had scaled that very mountain pass many times. However, my family had moved to the Midwest several years before, and all of my old friends were long gone, so there was no reason to stop on my way through. Although in retrospect, double-checking the oil in Yreka would have been a good idea.

  Luckily, a highway patrol was just a few miles behind me when my car exploded, and he blocked off the narrow lane it was in until the tow truck arrived. I had my car and trailer towed to the first available mechanic, who was in Ashland. And when I found out how much it was going to cost to fix the car, I needed to decide if I was going to get a bus ticket to Portland or spend all of my savings to resuscitate my Volvo.

  I nearly bought a bus ticket out of Ashland, but something told me I should put off the decision for a few days and just stay put. I hadn’t really been attached to Portland as much as I just wanted to get out of L.A. Although I technically already had a job waiting for me up there, I had enough money to support myself for a few months while I tried to find work.

  I’d forgotten how much I liked Ashland—it was one of my favorite places from when I was younger. I remembered visiting the idyllic tourist town to go shopping, eat at restaurants, or see an occasional Shakespeare play. The town was beautiful, the air was clean, it had culture, and most important, I simply liked it. I felt comfortable in Ashland, and I hadn’t felt comfortable in any place (including my own skin) since before I could remember.

  After I found myself stranded in Ashland for a few days, life instantly seemed much easier, and I quickly abandoned my original plan and decided to stay in southern Oregon. I was already much happier than I had ever been in L.A., and soon I even got used to the idea of living without a car. I’d been on foot the entire time since I had arrived, and it was liberating to be car free after being bound for so many years.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next day I woke up on top of the world. I was still shredded from moving and unpacking, but my adrenal reserves kept me mobile, as I was officially living in the most beautiful town I’d ever been in. Since I’d arrived, the weather had been unusually hot and sometimes even rivaled the peak summer temperatures of Southern California. It was a good thing, too, because my wardrobe had diminished to primarily short-sleeve T-shirts, blue jeans, and tennis shoes over the years of working in the casual environment of the entertainment industry. The locals warned me that the temperature would plummet once the seasons changed, and I began to look forward to it, since I’d been living in a single season for the past several years.

  Around the same time as on the previous day, I returned to the Co-op, excited to see what my new friend would have for me. Robert was sitting crosslegged, with his back propped against a conifer and the little black Lab sleeping at his feet. He was still wearing the same ripped brown clothes from the day before, although it looked like he might have found a brush for his hair. As I approached, the puppy opened his eyes to briefly acknowledge my presence, but he quickly squinted them shut and returned to his seemingly perpetual sleep.

  “Hi,” I said as I walked toward them.

  “Hello, Scott.” Robert stood up quickly, gathered his belongings, and began to put them in his large canvas bag. He casually tossed the freshly lettered cardboard sign he was holding to the ground.

  There is no difference between

  _______________ and_______________ .

  His sign challenged me. I knew I could find a pair that would clearly disprove his apparent premise of equality and started running through various odd couples in my mind. Giraffes and alligators. Debutantes and automobiles. Windows a
nd feathers.

  I finally said one aloud that was sure to stump him: “Elbows and mushrooms.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your sign—there is no difference between elbows and mushrooms,” I said smugly.

  “I agree.” He continued packing. “Of course there’s not.”

  His answer confused me, and as I began to protest, he shook his head as if to say, Don’t bother; you have so much to learn.

  He then slid the sign into his backpack and carefully arranged a family of miscellany within the drawstring bag. He held it out to me and asked, “Do you mind?”

  “Sure.” I grabbed the cloth bag and slung it over my shoulder, although my ego was still a bit dented from his dismissive response.

  “Let’s go,” he said as he swung the puppy over his shoulder like he was burping a furry baby. The small dog let out a soft whimper of surprise as his underside landed on Robert’s shoulder, but his eyelids remained shut, and he quickly returned to his state of indifference.

  We walked up the hill to Main Street and turned right at the base of the hill next to the large gray library. I had never been inside the public building before, but its imposing presence confidently presided over the south side of downtown.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked.

  Robert shot me a sharp glance, making it clear that my question wasn’t going to be answered. For a brief moment I wondered if I could trust him, since he seemed to have a habit of being secretive and cryptic on occasion. But the truth was that I felt comfortable when I was around him. It was as if all was as it was supposed to be, and he conveyed a certain childlike innocence that made everything seem okay. Although it didn’t make a lot of sense to trust someone so completely whom I’d just met, I decided to write off my apprehension as leftover mistrust from L.A. If I was going to stay in Ashland, I would need to make some friends anyway, so I tried to put the doubts out of my mind and enjoy the day without thinking too much about it.