I could get used to this. Fall, I mean. Every year, I forget how much I adore it, until it sweeps down upon me, bruising the sky with purplish clouds, sweeping the air clean with stiff, chilled breezes, painting the landscape with brilliant reds and golds.
Yesterday morning, a fall preview arrived somewhat unexpectedly, sending me rummaging through the storage closet in my basement searching for favorite jeans and fuzzy sweaters, inspiring me to pull out the remnants of my faded summer flowers and drive to the market for big baskets of mums, their russet and purple blossoms the jewel tones of the season. Apple cider was on my mind, hot and spicy, a cinnamon stick set jauntily within the cup for an added burst of flavor.
My friend Pat loves fall more than anyone I know. Every October, she gets in her car and heads out on a “leaf chasing mission,” which usually takes her into Western Michigan, Southern Ohio, and the Amish country of Indiana. These trips “feed her soul,” she says, as she travels winding back roads admiring the splendor of God’s palette covering the trees and hills.
Fall refreshes me, this beauteous bridge between the green easiness of summer and the grey freezes of winter. But as much as I love it, as much as it energizes me and lifts my spirits, I’m mindful of the loss inherent in this season. Winter’s coming, and I know this last burst of beauty has to sustain me through the endless grey days ahead.
But today, with the sunshine still warm on my head and the breeze refreshingly cool on my face, a pot of chili simmering on the stove and brownies baking in the oven, I’m just loving the feel of fall, wishing this season could last a long time.
Yes, I could definitely get used to this.