I caught a glimpse of something glowing in the ochre dawn. The air felt fresh, mingled with a ligneous scent I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
That was when I knew.
I’ve always appreciated the curious beauty of the natural world. This is likely thanks to my parents instilling such a proclivity in me since I was first old enough to be popped into a snowsuit.
Yet, it’s only in the past two years or so that I’ve truly begun to take note of the irredeemable charm of the changing seasons. I suspect it’s the freedom from my cyclical schooling calendar that means I’ve finally been able to escape a world almost entirely consisting of other’s original thoughts and my not-so-original thoughts.
That being said, the lure of autumn has always been irresistible to me.
Just outside my window is one of the finest examples of the season’s cinnamon magic. My neighbours nurture the most glorious tree, species regretfully unknown, and every September it’s utterly transformed. Leaves once shimmering green become little pieces of luxurious, crimson velvet, putting on a display to rival the entrance hall of the Ritz.
It’s evanescent. It’s tantalizing. It’s nature’s assortment of marzipan fruits.
And it sets my little world on fire.
Everywhere I go, I marvel at the view before me, feeling that familiar flip of my stomach I normally reserve for moments of intense nervousness. It’s as though I’m about to make a speech, only to be relieved to discover that it’s merely the trees who are there to listen.
It might sound strange, but it’s true. To me nothing tastes sweeter. I quietly go about my life for two (three?) whole delicious months like an ecstatic child who’s just been treated to a biscuit. There’s simply nothing I find more pleasing than being swaddled in a scarf, face burning as I turn my key in the lock and closing the door on the crunchy earth behind me.
The greatest part is knowing that each foliole will remain there until there tomorrow, consumed as they are by an intoxicating combination of aestheticism and hedonism. I like to suppose that the mysterious ways of the world wish to remind us there is perhaps a great deal to be said for creating art for art’s sake.
A majority of people seem to regard autumn as our year’s last hurrah, but I don’t think that’s true. It feels more like the start of something. After all, this is the time when gardeners will tell you that if you plan to seek signs of life in February, now is when seeds must be sown.
Whilst the season is perhaps our most ephemeral, I’m never left feeling disconsolate by its passing. Autumn’s fugacious quality speaks to me to simply say this; live life passionately. Be bold. Squeeze every last drop of blazing colour from every single moment. Savour this memory for the rest of your days.
I will. I promise.
Modernish 