I am thinking about literature as I often do on a Sunday afternoon and specifically about Oscar Wilde’s quote “And all at once, summer collapsed into fall.” It seems to me that fall suddenly made its presence known with a strong and imperious will, showering us with vivid colors and gorgeous views – full of detail, at the same time minute, graphic and accurate in its seasonal portents. I was born in the autumn season on September 17th, the same day that the U.S. Constitution was signed and on the date of the Battle of Antietam, the nation’s bloodiest single day, my Civil War historian son remarks wryly. I attribute my fondness for autumn perhaps because I was fortuitously born then. A quote from someone named Lauren Destefano who I do not know exactly captures my same sentiments: “Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.” I also think of a phrase from the movie “All That Jazz” when its principal dancer yells “Showtime!” and that, too, is how I feel about this season. All you have to do is look at the spectacle of fall and it will move your emotional compass into high appreciative gear and most likely make you reach for your phone to memorialize a few choice photos of the vibrant landscapes everywhere.
A glance at my dictionary tells me that the word autumn is from the French “automne” and didn’t enjoy common usage until the 18th century. It occurs between the end of September and into December in the Northern Hemisphere and is characterized by the shedding of leaves from deciduous trees who, like plants, are winding down their cycle of growth. The air is filled with transformation – shorter days, cooler temperatures, changing color of those leaves. One might say that this is Nature’s last hoorah before retiring into winter’s severe and quiescent mood. Symbolically though there is another story here: autumn is a time of gathering, storing and preparing for the cold and isolation that the next season will usher in.
While I’m in Trader Joe’s scooping up all the seasonal fall products and pumpkin-things galore, I consider that fall is a good time for rest, reflection, awareness, mindfulness. Our family prepares carefully for the longer and colder nights but still relishes the crisp autumn air, the wearing of my mom’s hand-knit bulky scarves, jackets so big you can get lost in them, and boots that we bought for a pittance at Tractor Trailer in Turlock, California, humongous black rubbery things meant for mucking out animal stalls. I love Emily Bronte’s quote that, “Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree,” because I feel precisely the same; her celebration of nature hits home with particular force this autumn. There have been many challenges this year but I know that autumn also symbolizes newness and I am finally ready for that and a piece of that home-made pumpkin pie that a Mississippi girlfriend brought by “to cut your cravings.”
My son and I have raked piles and piles of leaves, some crested with pine cones and tennis balls where our Bichon Frise has lackadaisically placed them. Mostly they have scattered now, no thanks to the high winds. I’ve set out an infinite number of acorns for the squirrels who grab them up with deliberate intention, sometimes tussling with each other in their effort to make a score. Our pumpkin, bought from a Jamestown church, sits on my porch steps and gleams with an almost religious fervor in the dying autumn light. I step outside to try and catch a falling leaf because I’ve heard the superstition that it is good luck!
The poet Keats was right about this time of year being “the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.” I’m pondering that sentiment when the phone rings and a Chinese friend informs me to light white candles against the growing darkness of the season or, alternatively, to place white flowers on my table. She tells me that white is the color of autumn in the Chinese tradition. For me the fall is the time when I concentrate on nudging the stories out of me that need telling and the beauty of nature is the exact tonic that provides the inspiration. An elderly neighbor drops by and I show him some photos I’ve taken of the exuberant reds, oranges and yellows that dominate the trees across the broad stretch of Kernersville, reverberating their statements powerfully in each section of the town and he says, simply, “Don’t that beat all?” In that moment, silence is golden and I am grateful, for however briefly, we have touched souls.
