The way I was...

the arrival of autumn

Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the Fall.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Monet, Autumn on the Seine at Argenteuil, 1873.

“Your girl is lovely, Hubbell.”

Last night, I watched Barbra Streisand thread her fingers through Robert Redford’s hair for the 200th time. I sobbed and it felt like home.

Nothing is more comforting than looking at a young Redford. The Way We Were features romance, comedy, and the complicatedness of communism - what more could I want? A perfect September night.

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Fall: the season for all senses. The feel of cooler temperatures after a long summer. A warm, visually pleasing palate of reds, oranges, and browns. The sound of crunching leaves underfoot. The smell of woodsmoke.

While I celebrate all of these seasonal joys, I can’t help but note that they are blazes on a trail that goes deep into a beautiful forest of wisdom and meaning.

Every year around this time, I reach out for the things I love most and pull them close. And then closer. I watch I Love Lucy and The Golden Girls until I hear the witty banter in complete silence. I talk to my mom at the beginning and end of every day. I eat cheesy, delicious soups with pieces of bread and nestle into my perfectly worn-in spot on the couch. I cuddle Delilah until she’s annoyed (it doesn’t take much). I watch the squirrels scurry about with cheeks full of acorns. I blast Muddy Waters with the windows down as I drive, hair blowing in every direction all at once. I stand in the breeze wishing the fullness I feel could last forever. I’m squeezing this moment until my knuckles are white and achy.

I’m yearning, but not for the past; I have too much of an appreciation for the present. But these autumnal routines and comforts offer a window to the past that allows me to see the present more clearly. I watch Lucy Ricardo set her nose on fire in front of William Holden, but all I see is little me sitting too close to the TV on my grandparents’ brick floor and laughing. I watch Katie look at Hubbell with such love, and all I see is my sick, 15-year-old self with tears streaming down her face watching their marriage fall apart for the first time. It's a journey inward.

I once heard an actress remark that when she watches her movies she doesn’t “see” the films themselves, instead, she sees flickering slides of her life. That’s how this time of year feels to me, like a magical projector highlighting who I was, how I’ve grown, and who I’m no longer willing to be - the best and worst of my existence. And by reliving these moments, I’m able to see how far I’ve come. How glorious and rocky and necessary every step and misstep was because they led to now - to me coming home to myself. That’s what good perspective does. The links are real and I know what I am seeking. I feel unburdened and connected. I fall into this season and each year the landing becomes softer and softer.

But there's also rebirth in the Fall. There’s electricity in the air, that crispness that Fitzgerald noted. Maybe it’s just the breeze. There are those beautiful, technicolor deciduous trees I love to look at: maples, oaks, and elms. "Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is in flower," wrote Albert Camus. And it's from May Sarton that I first heard the wisdom of the trees and their lesson in change. "Imitate the trees," she wrote. "Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go."

Autumn helps me savor the fullness, the loneliness, and the fright of being alive. Taken together, the experience never fails to be comforting, like religion in rare form.

Let go and fall.

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When you click that ❤️, my heart explodes with joy.