Autumn is so vibrant a time of year. I’m reminded of that illusion when reading books like S.M. Stirling’s post-apocalyptic series, where autumn was a harsh time of rushing to buttress the enclaves against the Oregonian winter.
For us, it’s about colors, smells wafting beneath the limbs and feelings that touch on the eternity around us. I see what I see, touch the roughness of the leaves and realize those feelings color how I in turn see the world. If that makes any bit of sense, congratulations on your intuitive prowess.
That thought chain is kind of like listening to Bruce Springsteen, during a 2005 VH1 Storytellers gig, explain some of his songs, with his comments being written down at his kitchen table. Wow, just wow, sweet chariot of musicality, take me away. That guy has a heckuva mind and some horse sense too.
And why is it ‘fall’ instead of the more noble, the more ethereal, “autumn?” Can we do an 'Occupy The Royal Academy of Sciences' and get them to agree to purge our lexicon of “fall?” That word conveys faltering, sad endings and such. As my Opa, my grandfather, would say, “Quatsch!” (aka Rubbish, Bull-puckies).
As the leaves brilliantly tumble, we get back to the garden, espying a change around us that reminds winter is here, a season of starkness that relaxes me because there’s no fluff – the trees stand barren, telling their own story, and it all is what it is.
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