This morning, I had to put on tennis shoes and pull on my fleece before I walked the dog. The sky is clear and the sun is like lemon juice dripping between shadows, but there’s a bite to the breeze. On the western horizon, Pikes Peak is drawn in soft puce and faded blue crayon, as if weary of the season, ready for the shawl of snow that’s not far away.
I love the changing season. It’s probably cultural that I am so productive through the autumn and winter months; in the US, we still follow a largely agricultural calendar and start school at harvest time. By the time we’re adults, we’re well trained to put away lazy days and buckle down to hard work.
It’s an exciting period for me. I love opening up the metaphorical boxes of supplies the girls have gathered all summer, at Disney World and Melide, along the suburban parkways where I walk the dog every morning, on lazy afternoon barbeques and from many, many, many days spend lying on the couch reading books. Every box contains the promise of books I might write, essays that are brewing, and the sweetness of uncovering more of my own journey, of finding more answers to that simple and ever-so-profound question most of us ask: who am I, and why am I on this planet?
Mostly what I feel is simple anticipation. My journeys this summer have been outward. The journey through the coming seasons goes inward. I am equally excited about this part: writing the next book, seeing where it takes me.
Does the advent of autumn make you feel energetic, or do you mourn the passing of the long sunny days? What rituals do you have to recognize the changing of the seasons?