Autumn, the dying of leaves, the colors, the crunching, the change, the floating and drifting, the drama, the inwardness.
While many find fall invigorating and lively and beautiful, I find autumn sad. Yes, it is all those marvelous other things, but the soup that contains the loveliness is melancholy, for me. Sadness.
(Hold on. Be brave. There is a happy ending.)
Summer delights me. Swimming, sunning, gardening, playing, long days, room to freely move, arms outspread, face to the sun, its warmth on the skin. Expansiveness, energy, exotic vacations. Adventure!
Then, fall creeps in - almost undetectably - snatching away summer's serendipity. Realizing that long months of cold and darkness must be endured before the landscape is reborn on spring's wings, my mind weeps.
For my loved ones' sake, I force myself to buck up, pursuing gratitude. My wardrobe is scanned for earth tones and oranges, reds, golds. Some items present themselves. Harvest decor is pulled from my seasonal decorations box. I buy a few pumpkins, set them here and there in an artful way. My spirits lift. Creativity breeds jollity. Maybe fall is not so bad after all.
Leaves dance from above, gracefully floating from their deathbeds to the ground, piling into crunchy heaps which must be raked and composted. Work. Sometimes very soggy work. Still, it is hard to resent this ballet of leaves, each one a prima donna.
The color orange is spunky. I like it. Crimson, elegance. Yellow and gold hobnobbing with green, playfulness. Once a year an orchestral masterpiece on display, colors, movement, surprise. Undeniably breathtaking, no matter how gloomy my outlook, ever-changing scenery brilliantly beckons.
Unshelled nuts tightly packed in bulging plastic bags at the local farm entice my attention as do knobby gourds in whimsical shapes. Then, there are the apples! An abundant variety of crisp freshness. My hand reaches to pick one smooth fruit after another. Into the white plastic bucket they go. The quaint outdoor store, lined with produce, sparkling bottles of syrups, jams, jellies, savories, offers explosive sensory delights of sights, scents, tastes. I can't help but purchase more than I should, grinning in exuberance all the way back to my car.
As I navigate the farm yard's unrestrained mounds of pumpkins, I chuckle at children rhapsodizing over their pumpkin selections.
"Look at mine! It is bigger than my head!"
Memories of my own pumpkin hunts as a child come to mind at the funny blurts and excited movement of kids as they weave their way amidst the goofy orbs, until their Eureka! moment when the perfect one is befriended. Laser focused and determined, filled with childhood wonder and utter joy.
In spite of myself, amusement at the children, the farm, the beauty of fall nudges melancholy to periphery. No time for brooding while this blazing drama plays out, this quickly fading marker of year's end. The sun is still warm on my shoulders and face, summer's staleness is blown away, replaced by crisp fresh air. The soil absorbs long-needed rain. Late harvest yields a few tasty surprises from my gardens. Pleasant. These are good things. These are not nothing. This season is something.
Autumn coaxes me. "Participate. Participate. Participate in the glory of the shedding of the old and the promise of the new."
I will.
I do.
And in my participation, melancholy offers its balance to the poetry of fall.
"Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love - that makes life and nature harmonize. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one's very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." George Eliot (Letter to Miss Lewis, October 1, 1841)
