October 2022
By Richard Fleming
Autumn is a cautious time. A period of transformation. Nature presents its most vibrant hues. But it pauses to reflect on what was left behind, and what may lie ahead. It is a season of beautiful uncertainty.
Fall was always my favorite season, but I have taken it for granted for many years. Life was busy. Time in short supply. Autumn came and went, year by year, barely gaining my attention. And before I knew it another fall had disappeared. Year by year.
But now I find myself re-considering the magic of autumn. I am not sure why. Maybe it is because I’m more accepting of my post-work reality. I am fully aware I will no longer be ministering to the sick. The profession I spent so many years preparing for, and so many years practicing, is receding into my past. Or perhaps it is my increasing awareness the autumns ahead are numbered. Their appearances will not be few, I hope, but neither will they be bountiful. As I reflect on years gone by, anticipate the future, and audit my changing sense of self, I feel a need to recapture this precious season.
I am spending more time outside. I see changes unfolding with a different pair of eyes. This fall does not resemble those from the past. Why? Are my memories fraying? Is the way I perceive the world altered? Or is fall itself changing?
In our backyard, a pair of hummingbirds is intently drinking sap from the autumn sage. They are preparing to fly to parts south, hundreds of miles away. Will they make their journey safely? Will this same pair return next year? We have had hummingbirds for years. But this fall, for the first time, one started hovering outside our dinette window for long minutes watching my wife and I drink our morning coffee. Is it saying a final goodbye? Is it asking why we aren’t also preparing for the journey ahead?
The squirrels seem preoccupied this fall. They have long used the top of our back fence as a roadway, ambling from one side of the yard to the other at a leisurely pace. This fall the fence has become their superhighway. They madly dash from one end to the other as though time is short. Do they know something I do not?
The wisteria sheathing the arbor in our side yard is challenging my recall of autumnal transformation. It is continuing to bloom in purple beauty, even as the days grow shorter. This never happened before. Or is my memory leading me astray?
Then there is the honey locust we planted behind our house three decades ago. It is beautiful in the summer, though it starts dropping leaves in late August. By mid-September its branches are typically bare, before the birches and maytens shed a single leaf. This year its leaves began dropping in late August as usual. But two weeks later, the leaf fall ceased. The tree retained half its foliage for weeks before it finally resumed carpeting the patio beneath. Trees resonate with the world around them. Is the honey locust hesitant about what is to come?
California autumns are muted compared to those in Kansas, where I grew up. Fall in Topeka was heralded by thousands of elms and oaks, maples and sycamores, appearing to catch fire. In the Bay Area of the Golden State, the fall colors are less vibrant, but a vivid feeling of change is carried on the wind. The realization that summer’s passion is coming to an end cannot be avoided. And the gray, diminished season ahead is visible on the horizon.
As I enter the early years of my eighth decade, I live in the transformative days of autumn’s time. I look back and see the spring and summer of my life. Many pleasant seasons filled with growth and development. More accomplishments than mistakes, though there were full measures of each. I look around and see much to be thankful for. But there is also a looming sense of closure. When winter will come I do not know.
So I will immerse myself in my personal autumn. I will appreciate beautiful days with family and friends. I look forward to treasured time with my third grandchild, due in December. I will relish some great novels. I will spend more days traveling down the road, observing the trees, marveling at nature, contemplating the trail ahead. I will fondly recall the brilliant autumn colors of my youth and treasure the subdued autumn days of my present.
I am living with the beautiful uncertainty of growing old.
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Thank you, Richard. Very good thoughts. Yes, just enjoy all the moments.
Thanks for your post, Richard. The colors have been brilliant in central Michigan and I stop often to just appreciate the views. I have learned that you really never know the path you are on. My husband of 46 years died quite unexpectedly on the golf course in May, 2021. I knew his path then, but mine is still unfolding. I am grateful for the life we had, the life I have, and the gifts of every day.
Sorry for your loss, Sherry, but when it’s my time, I hope it’s while enjoying time on the golf course. Merle.
I am sorry to hear of your loss, Sherry. I truly hope that your path continues to provide gratitude and serenity as you treasure those memories. Take care.
Some years ago, I realized I had entered “the fourth quarter” of the game, to borrow an athletic term. Loved your rich description of the autumn—of nature and life. Beautifully written. Thanks.
I enjoy your writing so very much. I relate to what you write about, its like reading my own thoughts but better. Thank you for putting your reflections on paper. Glad you both are outside enjoying your coffee together. You won’t remember me, but that’s not important
I grew up in rural New York State and sort of took the colors of autumn for granted. Then we moved to California, where fall is more subdued, if not out of sight entirely.
Then, several years ago, I started going back east quarterly when my father was dying of ALS. One of those trips was in October, and all of a sudden, those colors seemed to jump out to me.
To this day one of my dad’s gifts: a deep appreciation of nature’s autumn palette.
Very thoughtfully written. Having routinely cycled through many autumns, you are now finding time to see its full splendor. You reached that point where career demands no longer get in the way of the old advise to “stop and smell the roses”. That is an enviable place to be if you hunt them out and find fulfillment in “smelling roses”. Sadly, not everyone does.
Beautifully described observations, Richard. I love autumn, and have been enjoying the cooler temps here in Topeka recently. I try to get out for a walk daily, and this past week the colors are starting to show themselves… just love the reds, yellows, oranges and golds among the lingering greens. Of course, it won’t be long til we will be dealing with them all over our yard. But the effort it takes is worth the shade in the heat of summer.
One of the things I love about autumn is remembering that the beautiful yellow, orange and red pigments were there all summer. We just cannot see them because of the abundance of chlorophyll providing enough energy, sugar and water, for the tree. As the days shorten, the tree has to loose its leaves to preserve energy so chlorophyll degrades and we get to see the colors that define a season. Now, my left brain loves this type of information, but my right brain is a little lazy and can barely see all the analogies that this little bit of knowledge may provide as we consider our journey. So, Richard, you can see why I appreciate your insights and your ability to communicate them so beautifully.
I share your thoughts and feelings about Fall, Richard! Thanks for your thoughtful post.
What a beautiful post, Richard! You captured so much about life’s beauty, preciousness and transience.
Coincidentally, I type this while listening. to a stirring Sting song, “I Was Brought to My Senses,” which airs a theme similar to yours. And I’m in the middle of reading a powerful book, “Wabi Sabi: Japanese Wisdom for a Perfectly Imperfect Life,” which in effect expands on the wisdom you offer in this post.
Looking forward to many more posts and wishing you many more autumns!
Yes, Fall can be a love/hate time of year through no falt of my own planting over nine deciduous trees on my small 1/4 acre.
Likewise coming from the Midwest with the racking of leaves, jumping in them, and running through the smoke after setting them ablaze.
Now 5 decades later no jumping or burning, BUT it’s adding to the compost to continually to feed my beautiful 5 decades old trees.
Thanks for bringing back the memories.