October already, one of my favorite parts of the year. It always has been.
Since we moved to California, I find myself increasingly grumpy as the weeks of September drag by and the temperatures seem to rise unceasingly. This year sent us soaring above 105 multiple afternoons in late September and my mood was sent plummeting after it.
I’m a self-declared, never to recover, fall-aholic. This is the time of year that never ceases to capture my amazement and childlike observation of all that is beautiful and meaningful in the world around me. My obsession was trained into me as an elementary student by my fall-loving mother, who would take us on “leaf walks” the first week or two of October--just an afternoon out of the house in a hoodie before we needed a real coat. We would roam through neighbor's yards and the local park collecting treasures...acorns (the ones with the hats are the best...unless you can find the very rare in-tact double), interesting twigs or long grasses to go into vases, and leaves...leaves of every color and shape, small as a my finger and large as my face. These collections were poured into shirt-buckets and crammed into sticky fists until we trudged back to the house in waning yellow light, pink-faced with nipped ears and dripping noses, ready for cocoa. We melted old bits of wax in the frying pan, dipped the leaves and dried them on paper towels to make them last the whole season.
The kids spread the treasures around every counter and toilet seat and cabinet shelf that night, and we cherished giving Dad the grand tour when he returned from a long day. Late that night, mom would re-collect and repurpose them into truly beautiful embellishments all over the house which would accent our home through the season. I’m not sure how she did it. She could turn anything organic, be it living or dead, into something beautiful. We felt some secret pride in adding to her talent.
But California makes it challenging. And perhaps adulthood too. My soul tugs at my mind this time of year, longing for a respite, a hunt for the beauty, and my mind somehow can’t see it...certainly not until the temperature drops below 70. Last week I had the blessing of a new camera that arrived on my doorstep (thanks to my love) which changed everything. I got off work late one night, too late really to get any good photos, but I left the house anyway and walked the 2 blocks to the local park. And there, after 10 minutes of casting about, I began to see things. Long rays of light, dancing grasses, curled bark, withered flowers, and even a bit of a song on the wind. And I returned to my house that night with new energy, new life. It seemed not a incongruous thing that my mind and heart feel sapped the last few weeks. It felt right, that there is a sense of change and transition brewing in my spirit again.
I am reminded again that fall is not a season--it is not a climate change or a wardrobe shift or a chance for Yankee candles to thin our wallets over the pursuit of dessert and beverage-flavored wax.
In many ways, fall is a death. The summer’s peak has come and gone, the harvest must be collected before it falls un-useable in the field, and the beauty which has inspired and given life in the months previous is fading away. As it crumbles, it leaves skeletons of itself behind--rustling reminders of the previous bounty, and of the stores we have gleaned for the winter ahead. There are days for tilling the soil under, days for reflecting on the memory of what is behind in order to be prepared for the dark and chill days that are coming.
This time of great change often leaves a scene that is lackluster and unimpressive. But its lack of color, of vibrancy, is vital if the next season of growth is to spring forth. Without fallow ground, without time for branches to grow and swell, without time to recover and replenish there will be no more life to give.
Perhaps it is because my own life has had so many significant events during this season, the fall always seems like a reset button for me. After PA school graduation, moving back to my home town, and my wedding all in the same month in 2011, and the move to California in 2012, reflection on the past is almost automatic for me this time of year. I find my stubborn friend, Nostalgia, to be at his prime when the days grow shorter. His lure on me is strong; there are many days I would prefer to sit and bask in the glory of the dying growth than to see its shortcomings. There is nearly always some not-so-metaphorical mess as well...a chaotic settling of the summer’s activity and the setting of one’s jaw towards the coming year which takes not a small amount of gumption.
And I find, on my other shoulder, a sense of discontent as well, an urgency to learn broadly, create deeply, build differently, prioritize more skillfully. There is an irritation with the clutter, like an arm sweeping the desk clean in broad strokes, laying ready crisp new paper and a sharpened lead which sit empty for weeks. Empty and waiting, until gradually sketches emerge of what could be, what should be, what is impossible.
If spring is for celebration and revelry, fall is for contemplation...for learning to see what is past as gone, though all around the leaves and pods and flowers are still visible, dried echoes of their former glory. Beautiful, yes...and purposeful too. The harvest nourishes and satisfies long after it has died. But it will not last forever. It will not carry us through next season. So as we bake and store and rake and burn we must also be wondering, pondering, envisioning the coming spring.
This fall, I find myself dreaming again. Having survived a rather traumatic transplant into the desert, I look around and see my family, small and seemingly insignificant, yet thriving and just beginning to draw a harvest. We are still seedlings in many ways. I find myself ready for more, for deeper, for adventure and hard work in pursuit of the things that will last: life in community, learning, reforming of character, growing and developing of skills. I find myself needing time for play and failure and new ideas. Wanting to focus on service, wellness, mentoring, and giving.
I find myself sitting back, and watching, stubbornly unwilling to miss the vision for what is next. I ask the Lord to make it clear as I take time to notice the what this season has brought. And I ask that my joy from the harvest around me will not overpower my will to start planting again.
These dreams and visions are not the crisp and crackling textures of today, they are what will spring up from the ground next. They are the small, parched seeds waiting in the cold earth for the day they will feel warmth. They are the reason that death must occur.
This week has highs projected in the upper 80’s, and I am making pumpkin-spiced treats and fall soups in pure defiance of California’s seasons. But as I turn up my nose and stubbornly celebrate, I am also so thankful. My eyes are open again to the simple things around me--I will continue to make time to celebrate this death, and all the new life it can bring.
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