Reflections

For years, I figured Fall was part fiction. The reds and golds had to be exaggerated in books — I had never seen such a colorful landscape for myself. We were used to a subtle shift of seasons in central Texas, where little changes visibly besides the grass quietly browning. The temperatures fluctuate between hot and cool until, before you know it, we’re almost to Christmas and the cool days outnumber the warm ones. It’s a slow fade that barely registers until it’s past.

My first Fall up north, I was entranced. Here on the east coast, Fall announces itself. Nearly every tree reads aloud the story of transition. I’m drawn into the ritual of it all— a two-month ceremony where colors explode, then fade as the days shrink and the air cools.

In 2020, Fall hits differently. These days, both time and change are sore subjects. We avoid dwelling on how long it’s been since the pandemic devastated our world. November’s surge in Covid-19 cases looks much like the one we experienced six months ago. In this unpredictable world, change happens so rapidly it feels impossible to keep up. Plans are pointless. Calendars are little use.

Yet I find myself drawn to Fall more than ever before.  When the tree tips began to yellow, I saved leaves and took photos to document the transformation. Maybe watching nature change in front of us helps us reclaim our own relationship to time. We can see that time comes around. Fall lets us stand on the edge of the arc, watching it slowly bend. The trees tell us a story of loss. But it is also a story of renewal. So I gather up leaves to press between newspaper under stacks of books in our increasingly chilly basement. And some day —as the arc of time bends— I will peel them off the headlines and remember how they helped me to hope.