The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It’s almost time. Can you feel it? The air is starting to change: there is a slight bluster to the mornings. The light is different. Our dogwood is taking on a reddish hue. Fall is coming. It’s almost time for my rust orange sweater, the one with brown and blue flecks in it and extra long sleeves I can pull down over my hands. It's my favorite sweater. There is something comforting in the orange, in the extra long sleeves, in bundling up against the elements. I am more than ready for fall, for the crisp air and the changing leaves, for the hot cider and pumpkin treats, for the trips to the country…it’s the most wonderful time of the year. Things feel quieter, slower, and more deliberate, but without the darkness of the winter chill. During the fall I often take long walks, listen to the crunch of leaves, watch the wind whip them up into mini-whirlwinds along with my hair, and brace myself against the nip in the air. It’s thrilling. My smiles originate from a deeper place; peace takes root somewhere in the core of my soul. I marvel at the winding down of the world, at the beginning of its hibernation. It’s the perfect time to have a conversation with the world.

I love fall. I wait for it every year. Waiting for a season is a strange sensation. I didn't grow up knowing seasons the way some people did. Summer was just a sunnier version of spring. Fall didn't mean much to anyone except the Hermansons whose one oak tree would go orange and red each October and make an awful mess. It took them an entire Saturday every fall to rake up their leaves. I always felt so sorry for them.

In my memory of childhood, winter was as much as the weather changed. It mostly just meant wearing a light sweater during the day. Winter’s true signal came in the form of the active fireplace at Grandpa and Grandma's. I loved watching Grandpa pick out the perfect piece of wood to fit into the blazing tepee of logs. Grandpa and I would sometimes sit on the stone ledge in front of the fireplace, and he would tell me jokes (complete with his feet-stamping cackle), or stories about when he worked as an actor in Hollywood, or sometimes about more sacred experiences as a prison chaplain. Those nights always left me wishing we had a fireplace at our house. I think I would have wrapped up in a blanket and spent my winter nights reading a good book or having deep, late-night conversations.

I never dreamed I would move away from paradise, but the circumstances of life carried me into a land of seasons. It took me a full cycle of seasons to come around, but I did arrive. My conversion came during my second fall. Fall that year was magical; it swept through the neighborhood swiftly and silently. The tree across the street changed from green to scarlet overnight, or so it seemed. Piles of leaves appeared in neighbors' yards. I even saw a little boy jump into one! All things I only ever saw in movies. I picked my own pumpkin, navigated a corn maze, and bought fresh cider. I had also just moved into a house with a fireplace and was about to start graduate school. I passed many chilly nights in front of the fire, redefining myself as a student and discovering I was a scholar. I often smiled to myself, remembering childhood evenings with Grandpa. It was perfect sweater weather, perfect fireplace weather, and perfect blanket weather. Add in Thanksgiving and you start to get an idea of how I came to love fall.

As the earth cools down and enters into its season of rest, I feel like I too tend to slow down around this time of year. The long walks increase, my desire to hold hands or snuggle under blankets increases, I feel more contemplative and am more apt to share those tender feelings that come through reflection. Perhaps that is why I love fall so much, because I, like the earth, have my own seasons, and I imagine fall to be the beginning of a season of change.

The earth is changing. I can see her
shifting her colors, her pace, her drive:
Simplifying, shedding, calming, still,
slowing softly, gentle but brilliant.
She speaks in a whisper, then she waits:
“Are you list’ning?” She asks. “Are you there?”
Her words take flight on the wind, seeking,
and always moving.

The earth is resting, and so I wish
to slow things down for a little while.
My mind is tired, my body weary;
My spirit craves quiet reflection.
From the earth’s movement I take my cue;
With the wind I pass gently through thought,
sometimes whipping, at moments a breath,
but always moving.

The earth speaks peace, I try to listen.
I feel them, words on the wind, no sound,
brought on by a breath of a breeze. Peace.
Though leaves may fall, the tree still lives,
Though the days are short, there is still time.
Patience now, for seasons come and go.
Simplify, shed, calm, be still. Listen.
The wind has changed.