Just as writers sometimes do, I tend to wax nostalgically about my favorite season. For me, that season is Autumn. When Autumn approaches, memories of my youth are abundant. We reached Autumn this year early Monday morning.
I yearn to hear the haunting melodies of songwriters and the melancholy interpretation of poets whose work reflects solemn respect for the season.
Autumn reminds me of a time when my appreciation of the season had little to do with its exquisite palette. My awareness of Autumn’s nobility among the seasons was through youthful eyes and Autumn’s majesty beyond my comprehension.
In those days, the extent of my consciousness of the season was hanging out with childhood friends. I knew nothing of the autumnal equinox, and its robust allure, splendor, and astonishing visual ecstasy.
I couldn’t yet, appreciate the wonder of Autumn’s yielding to Summer, and allowing its predecessor a glorious encore. Or, how Summer’s surrender of its warmth and famed winds during Indian Summer, is a necessary precursor to a bountiful harvest.
There are, of course, marvelous things about the other seasons. Some delight in the soft white blanket laid gently during a Winter’s night, the spontaneous splash of a Spring shower, or the sultry scorch of a hot Summer day.
Still, for me, it is Autumn’s blustering winds and rustling foliage that stir my soul. After a lifetime of rendezvousing with my favorite season, Autumn is similar to an old friend, and its bittersweet déjà vu a comfort.