An Ode to Autumn

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

With Autumn, the trees drop their leaves and sigh into the coming restful embrace of Winter. The slant of the light changes, amplifying the contrasts between muted wheat and earth tones against gold, scarlet and evergreen. Windy warm days punctuate chilly bonfire nights.

My pantry overflows with butternut, pumpkin, walnut and maple; cinnamon, nutmeg, clove and cardamon sit at the front of my seasonings. Savory soups and cozy casseroles top the menu, usually with a hidden mix of blended greens and spices to overcome my picky toddler’s palate. I find myself enchanted with the idea of doing nothing for days but making potholders or crocheting a wooly blanket, ruminating over the textures and warp as I plan out patterns and stitches and color pairings.

Our windows are perpetually open and the kettle frequently heard. Yet not always for reasons I wish. Autumn heralds the start of the endless virus cycle in our household. No matter how scrupulous I am when we go out, every couple of weeks it seems one of the children brings home an illness. Early on, I greet the unwelcomed guests with a well-stocked cabinet of homeopathics, herbals, and conventional medicines, and a freezer of homemade bone broth ready to be transformed into chicken soup. Later in the season, I reheat canned soup, absently fingering an ombre potholder in shades of cream, nutmeg, and chocolate, wishing for the time to make another one.

I cradle my youngest as I write this, his snoring, fevered face tucked into my shoulder. It is our first round of such visits and hints of thyme and oregano from last night’s minestrone inspired chicken stew still linger in the kitchen. A patch of sunshine nearby beckons me to come and nap. Yet it is an empty invitation; the clouds are rolling in.

A restlessness wells up inside of me, a longing to hit the open road garbed in a nubby sweater and boots. To search for inspiring vistas, both familiar and unexplored. For Robert Frost to challenge me at lonely intersections of gravel roads: which is the one less traveled?

This week I celebrate turning one year older, acutely feeling as having one foot in the past and one in the future, all the while, trying so, so hard to dwell in the now. To live one day at a time with only the challenges of that day to deal with. To not be mired in the mistakes of yesterday nor get caught in all the what-ifs of tomorrow. To simply be grateful to the One Who has given me today and to love the ones He’s put around me.

And in this liminal space, anything is possible. Because Autumn is magical.

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