I've always found Autumn to be an exciting, and even semi-magical time of year. Admittedly I do usually go through a slightly panicked phase at the very beginning where I realise I've worn my flip flops and sandals for the last time, and when the dark evenings seem to be drawing in alarmingly quickly, and all those evening walks that I never really took anyway are suddenly all the more appealing due to the fact that they're no longer an option at all. But somewhere in that brief time period between the end of the summer when I'm on high spider alert, and the Hallowe'en-to- Christmas period when I move to high mouse alert, I start to feel the odd spark and crackle of excitement and change in the air. I love the colours of Autumn, I love donning scarves and boots and tights, I love the rich melancholy magic of Eva Cassidy's songs about falling leaves and memories, and yet somehow amongst all the death and regret associated with this poignant season, I always feel a crisp sense of hope somewhere as the Autumnal air hits my lungs.
When I was studying in St Andrews my favourite time of year was always between the start of the first semester and reading week, when my new batch of stationery was as crisp and fresh as the leaves on the ground and I knew I had a whole year's lovely routine to look forward to with the stress of deadlines still far enough away not to be nagging. We were all drawn out into those three streets by the hourly bells that saw us flitting kaleoidoscopically from class to coffee, or to another class or home, always guaranteeing friendly faces and lighthearted chatter with the people who flickered across our paths. Hopes for what lay ahead were fresh and as clear as the bright Autumn sun. Everything was unspoilt and ready to be enjoyed, like a big pile of brightly-coloured leaves just begging to be kicked around and dove into.
In my French course we studied some poetry by Apollinaire, a little selection of poems called Alcools and for some reason this guy too seemed to be a little entranced by l'Automne. One of my favourite poems in the selection was entitled 'Automne malade', which clearly implies he had perhaps more melancholy associations with the season that I do, but I love the final lines of the poem which read:
'Et que j'aime o saison que j'aime tes rumuers
Les fruits tombant sans qu'on les cueille
Le vent et la foret qui pleurent
Toutes leurs larmes en automne feuille a feuille
Les feuilles
Qu'on foule
Un train
Qui roule
La vie
S'écoule.'
So bear with my extremely rusty French skills, but a rough translation of the above is that he loves the rumours of Autumn, the fruit falls without being gathered, the wind and the leaves in the forest which cry all their tears in Autumn leaf by leaf. The leaves that one gathers, a train going past, life flowing by.
Another beautiful aspect to this season is harvest, celebration of plenty and life always seems to mirror that abundance at this time of year, plenty of social events, plenty of new things to try and energy to enjoy them, and no time to feel depressed or stuck in a rut as Christmas goodies appear and the countdown to the festive season never feels far away. So many good things happening and not enough time to gather each one up and enjoy.
Then he brings out the image of the leaves being cried on to the ground, which is a sad image, but somehow implies cathartic cleansing and the shedding of the old. It implies the old making way for the new, and the passing loss that inevitably involves, which is something we all experience at different times in our lives. The time old rule as steadfast as the law of gravity that for an oak tree to grow the acorn needs to first be buried in the ground and lost, the idea of surrender and sacrifice so central to my faith and idea of personal holiness. All the things I'm bringing and surrendering to God with tears but somehow hope and a crackling anticipation of what beauty and sense He will make of it all in His precious time.
He ends with the train going past and life flowing by, a sense in Autumn that life is not going to be the same forever, and with each Autumn the changes that come and the shedding of the years that have already been. I think this theme may become more pertinant to my blog in the next months as my particular train of life hurtles along to the big event of my 30th, as I have already started to ponder the fact that I am not going to be young forever, which is something I have never really had cause to grapple with before, and something I hope that will end somewhere along the lines of liking myself more with a bit of wisdom and experience under my belt and a few metaphors making connections to fine wine and cheese (can't let all that good French education go to waste!) but those will be ponderings for another day.
Now for settling down to the simple joys of the season, fluffy slippers, central heating, sparklers, the cosiness of being inside on a dark night, a rapidly filling diary, toffee apples, conkers, coin pie and a rich sense of abundance and having lot to look forward to, oh and hopefully a good big pile of leaves to crunch through in a lovely new pairs of boots.
