Autumn Exhale

The geese are honking overhead like a siren for the coming cold. In their departure they forewarn below. Their exquisite necks streamline through pewter heavens; their wings keep time with the crisp cadence of autumn, drumming and driving them southward.

“Farewell, fair weather friends; I can feel winter in your wake.”

Surrendered leaves are pitched about, reluctantly left to wander the earth, having given up the ghost. They are the loveliest in perishing, glowing most brilliant right before spinning death.

A gust of wind whips up burning colors from beneath, and it’s as if it caught fire in the sky; a flame of amber-gold glows fiercely against November’s heather. I have a Burning Bush moment in the midst of the gilded cyclone lacing itself around me.

“Let go...”

It suggests, as a familiar whisper, and it’s downright holy how the season speaks so intimately to my soul.

“Yes. Let go...”

I reaffirm, and it’s swiped out of my mouth by a thieving swoosh, making room in my lungs for the release that is autumn.

It’s a divine exhale, actually -- a dignified sigh. Some seasons suck you right in, like sour candy, and hold you captive in their cheek until you’re reduced to simple syrup. Summer hangs on like this, with its balmy grip. Winter, too, but it clenches with gritted teeth. Yet the fall, it lets go. And it’s a perpetual letting go.

Things go muted now: frosted glass is the new obscure view -- inside the house, atop the vehicles, through my black-rimmed glasses. It simply means there’s warmth on the inside, and that’s a sure sign of living life. Thermal blood pushing back against frigidity is a high-road effort. I’m thankful to be counted among those who have a flushing pulse, as the life blood drains from the tree’s leaves. All of my color is on the inside, and if I were to freefall to the ground like the rest of autumn’s brave, I’d spill similar tones, I believe; we are uncanny in our commonality.

Everything needs a bit more right now: the critters need bulk for the cold; the children need meat for the bones; the chilled need layers for comfort. I find myself searching for the more they need within tall cabinets, cool closets, and screeching drawers. I have tucked away provisions all summer long, knowing full well the garden and the green would soon expire. So while the dappled sky collapses with the weight of longer nights, we have all we need right here.

There’s a distinct wooing sound too, and a surreal feel, most audible in chilled ears and palpable in chapped cheeks, or spry squeaky floors beneath sockless feet. My wood floors creak differently when the house has cooled in the latter half of the year. Those pilfered-through cabinets and closets and drawers all have an echo that summer normally swallows up. It’s the drawing in of wood, and holding cold of plaster, and the casting over of quilts. It sounds open, like a hand that unfurls...like the season that yields.

Autumn does give of itself so graeefully, offering up all that’s needed to endure the barrenness to come. It fills both storehouse and home with swelling gratitude, and counts its blessings like gold coins: it tucks them away, then cashes them in during the bleak of winter. We find we have just what we need, right when we need it, and accrue much by letting it go. Fall is a gloriously wise example and gift to us.

“Let go...” says the season of the soul.