The Autumnal Equinox has just passed, and there’s no doubt change is in the air. It’s cold when I step outside in the mornings now—a briskness that is uniquely Fall. There are spots of brilliant red in the maple trees, and chrysanthemums, pumpkins, and shocks of corn decorate yards and farmer’s markets.
In our yard, the squirrels are scurrying everywhere, almost always carrying something in their mouths, often a chestnut still covered in its prickly husk.
I love this time of year. Perhaps after raising two children, it signals a return to order and routine after the summer. Certainly I am more comfortable in the cool weather than the hot. Yet there is an urgency lurking in the air, and the animals are keenly attuned to it. Hurry! Prepare! Stock up! Get ready for winter! I find it a bit unsettling. Should I, too, be doing something before it’s too late?
This year’s changing season coincides with other changing seasons of my life. My beloved father died exactly a month ago this week, and I find myself adjusting to a new reality without his physical presence. The celebration of his life and the gratitude for his unusually long time with us is punctuated at times with breathtaking stabs of pain and loss, often at illogical times.
Our sweet little 17-year-old cat, Marley, has just succumbed to the fibrosarcoma that slowly weakened her until she let loose of her ties to this life.
These are losses, yes, but they each come at the end of a wonderful cycle of robust and happy living.
I am grateful for my childhood on a cattle farm, where the cycles of life and death are as normal and expected as the sun’s rising and falling. The garden and the crops are planted, grow, and are harvested. Animals, including beloved pets, are born, live, and die. Seasons come and go…and come again.
And thankfully, my faith also informs my appreciation for these cycles—these seasons. I don’t believe death is the end of things, though the changes death brings are often sad and painful.
So in this particular season, I am resting in the mystery, in the bittersweet truth that changes take place but often as a cycle, a circle if you will.
And what is a circle if not a beautiful symbol of eternity and hope?
Seasonal changes here are too quick into winter and too slow into spring. It’s just not the same as the east coast with trees nearly flourescent, oranges, reds, golds. At least I have the internet to look at pictures and the lovely posts that friends make.
I know exactly what you mean, Karen. We experienced your situation in reverse when we lived in Louisiana. Spring and Fall were very, very short. I missed the fours seasons terribly.
This is beautiful, Elizabeth. Reminds me of something Aunt Ang used to say – “The only constant is change.” I do love fall, though I’d rather see it with more color. I’ve seen only one or two small trees that are turning red or orange. Most trees up here just go a little yellow or brown, then bare. I love the fall on the east coast, and I do miss all the color. I am missing those that I’ve lost – it does get easier, but it’s always different.
Thank you so much, Karen! Your Aunt Ang was a wise woman!
I’ll bet you do miss the more vivid foliage of the east coast. New England is especially amazing. I’m kind of surprised you don’t have more seasonal changes there.
Elizabeth, what a wonderful description of this season of change! The “breathtaking stabs of pain and loss” will continue to come at illogical times for a long time. They will serve to show you how often you have thought of him during his life without being aware of it. Finally the pain will ease and those times will be your moments of connection with him.
Oh, Esther, you have given me a lovely gift in the notion of reframing the pain to become a moment of connection. Thank you!
Thank you for beginning my day with such a beautifully written description of the beginning of Autumn. It is hard to believe that summer came and went in the blink of an eye. Harder still to imagine it has only been a month since we lost your Dad. The two spaces of time offer an interesting contrast in the way we perceive the counting of minutes and days. Thank you.