Even though the shift has been gradual — just a few minutes a day — it wasn’t until this week that I noticed how much later the sun has been rising in comparison to a few months ago. The prospect of getting up early and running for an hour in the dark was losing its appeal. The payoff — to watch the sun rise over the park or the river — was still great, and, in theory, I could just start my run a bit later, but something in me was shifting along with the seasons. I no longer craved these hours before dawn.
I knew I would miss these early mornings at the park, when nobody else was there.
I noticed the first hints of red in the leaves.
I wondered what went on here during the days, but the flowers offered no information.
Most years, the arrival of fall offers some relief and a sense of possibility, not in terms of starting new projects but in taking stock, tying up loose ends, preparing for the winter. This feeling — grounding and motivational — is different than what I ever feel in the summer, when I dream about escape, when I want to melt and evaporate. This September, however, any increased awareness I have about my place in the world (actual or desired) is accompanied by dread about how these next few weeks/months/years are going to unfold, and a corresponding futility to do anything about it. Is there a machine that can take us all back three or four thousand years so that, this time, we can do things differently, with more regard for each other and the planet?
I recently read a tweet that said: “At every stage people have told me I was too pessimistic and mostly I’ve been too optimistic.”
Summer, it seems, is a season for denial, whereas fall is a time for reality.
