My first few minutes of observing are spent adjusting to the cold autumn breeze rustling the bushes around me, as I pull my jacket tighter to my chest and try to catch brief moments of warmth as the sun slips in and out of the cloud cover. There is no denying the bright yellow leaves on the trees or the appearance of orange squash and kale in the market; Autumn is here.
On the one hand, the coming of fall calls in a time of candles burning in the window, the sweet childhood nostalgia of Halloween, the harvest moon. It’s hard to beat the beauty of a canopy dominated by stunning reds and oranges. I can’t help but turn my eyes upward as I walk the forest path, crisp, cool air filling my lungs. But autumn also signifies the shortening of days, the end of the tomato and eggplant harvests, the decaying of the living world as it prepares for the dormancy of winter. I have to admit that I’m quite torn about the whole thing, enthusiastically planning a trip to the nearby apple orchard while simultaneously unnerved by the new quietness that has settled around the lake. The once constant croaking of frogs is now fewer and farther between, and flowers no longer dot the edge of the water.
As I sit, contemplating and comparing beginning and ends, a harsh call overhead makes me lift my gaze to the sky. Trailing one behind the other is their classic formation, turning the sky into a river of sounds and feathers and exclamations, a flock of geese travel high above me as they accompany each other on the long journey to their new home for the season. I smile. And then I cry.
Letting go of summer, the season of long days and abundant life, is hard. And for me, no summer has felt quite as hard to let go of as this one. I spent my summer working on a farm, growing food for others in a way that regenerated the earth, and the community that I built through that work, left me feeling deeply inspired and clearer than ever about what a meaningful life means to me. But I also feel more uncertain about my path forward than ever before. The weight of my own responsibility to dictate my own way contrasting with the overwhelming vastness of the world and all the potential it holds leaves me dizzy.
So I look to the constants I know for reassurance. I know I can count on the change into fall to be a spectacular display of the earth’s beauty. I know I can count on a few more harvests of more tough and resilient autumn vegetables. I know I can count on the water of the lake getting colder and light in the sky more scarce. I know I can count on the first buds of spring. And, I remind myself, I can count on the beauty and wonder that is to be found in each of these things.
