We've officially phased into my favorite season. It's funny how no matter where I am, I sense this transition into the back end of the year. My body senses it, even in California, where you can almost lose your sense of what time of year it is. Here, autumn + summer mingle in the Indian Summer days. The north coast sees some of that palette of crimson, rust + gold, but it's not quite like home. Don't get me wrong, I rarely really get melancholy over missing home. To me, Illinois is first love: sweet for a time, remembered fondly, but not able to withstand the test of time or who I've grown into; who I will become. It's beautifully ephemeral. It always give way.
I have so many scattered memories of this time of year from throughout my life. They're more like items, really– memorabilia behind a sheet of dusty glass in shadow box compartments. They have a vibrancy that's palpable for a nanosecond, enough to give you a flash of feeling, then dampened by the presence of time. It was (almost) this time of year that I moved to California. (How appropriate). "Real" life began + things changed. They're still changing. I began trying to do the adult thing, + I'm still really confused about how you're actually supposed to do that. I guess you never really know how to do anything though, do you? You just change, day by day. You phase into something else, shedding old habits, stories, tastes, wants, cares + patterns, making room for new growth. It always amazes me how nature just knows.
That's what I really love about this time of year. The surface beauty is stunning enough, but the intelligence beneath it fascinates me. The trees don't need to be told to change, they just do. They let go + go bare for a time, + then they're primed + ready for newness. They surrender to the seasons. They're steadfast. Whatever they lose, they gain back in the spring because earth is their anchor. They're rooted.
I can't help but think how different + hopeful life would be if we all lived like that.