The leaves haven’t yet begun to turn. The air has, though. Brisk, as the clouds cover the sky in the deep, day shortening way that clouds do in the fall, in the winter. Tight little sprinkles, never quite reaching a downpour, never quite leave the air dry.
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The quiet, almost whispered hints and notes of the effervescent joy that leaps forth from life begin to take.
Even though the path is clear, the unfortunate reality is that the path is seen as if from the top of a mountain. Clear, direct, and still a few days journey before it is a reality. So our lives begin to turn, from vibrant greens, to brilliant, golden reds.
The expectation is daunting, inescapable, and exhilarating. There is no path but forward. Only one reason is necessary, more than one and you may be trying to convince yourself. Even those not flying south for the winter see geography change. Terrain living and hibernating as the flora lives and hibernates.
In this turning we are made, churned, sifted, fortified, hopefully ending more beautiful than when we began our journey. Hopefully loving well and living to the full with the taste of cider fresh on our tongues. We move from beautiful to practical, from sunflowers to sunflower seeds.
Though I suppose this is simply a transferred beauty. The beauty of a changed identity, a changed purpose. We are never truly discarded, and those who might try only have the control we give them. Fall is a transition, humanity is a transition. Indeed, seasons are called such because they only last for a time.
Yet we are always in a season, we can never escape seasons. Nor would we want to, for it is only through seasons that we reach ripeness, the beauty of wisdom. Fruit is most beautiful when it’s in season. I refuse to believe in the “good old days,” and thereby infer my ripeness has come and gone and now I am rotten.
As fall begins, new life is prepared by the passing of the old. I am grown as I let go of the dust I have been scared to lose, and grapple with the hopes I am scared to choose.William Stonewall Monroe