Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Autumnal Equinox 2014

Fall is back. And it's frisky.

I'm part of the majority that rates fall as a favorite season - and it's not hard to understand why.

Jewel-tones. Metallics. The bluest skies. Leaf peeping. Road trips. Pumpkin patches. Corn mazes. Apple Orchards. Cider Donuts. Harvest. Plaid. Jackets layered over button downs layered over thermals wrapped with a scarf. Arm warmers. Pea coats. Knee high boots. Booties. Mocs. Tights. Curling up. Books. Turning on my oven without it being a method of torture. Beer. Oktoberfest. Hayrides. Scary movies. Halloween. Jack-o-lanterns. Bonfires. Back to school. Fresh start. New friends. Love possibilities. Getting serious. Mulling. Roasting. Sweating only when exerting oneself at the gym. Barrettes. Theater. TV. People in town. Turning off the AC. Adding another blanket. Great sleeping weather. Snuggling. Libras/Scorpios/Sagittarius. Spices. Baking. Pies. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Maple. Caramel. Slow cooker. Sweaters. Sweater Dresses. Sweater Coats. Baths. Football. Crafts. Hiking. Dog Parks. Festivals. Markets.

It's always hard to say goodbye to the fun and frolicking of summer. Summer, which seems like a break from the grind, an escape, turning off for 2-3 months. But when the autumnal term arrives with crisp air, but still warm earth, there is a sense of settling in. Of coming home. The scents of the season wake in me many happy memories associated with this time of year. No other season creates such vivid recollections. And it is oh so comforting. Autumn is the shortest season, but manages to etch a deep and lasting impression into us. So raise a pumpkin spiced latte to the next few months while you relish in all the new memories being created.

By An Autumn Fire
Now at our casement the wind is shrilling,
Poignant and keen
And all the great boughs of the pines between
It is harping a lone and hungering strain
To the eldritch weeping of the rain;
And then to the wild, wet valley flying
It is seeking, sighing,
Something lost in the summer olden.
When night was silver and day was golden;
But out on the shore the waves are moaning
With ancient and never fulfilled desire,
And the spirits of all the empty spaces,
Of all the dark and haunted places,
With the rain and the wind on their death-white faces,
Come to the lure of our leaping fire.
But we bar them out with this rose-red splendor
From our blithe domain,
And drown the whimper of wind and rain
With undaunted laughter, echoing long,
Cheery old tale and gay old song;
Ours is the joyance of ripe fruition,
Attained ambition.
Ours is the treasure of tested loving,
Friendship that needs no further proving;
No more of springtime hopes, sweet and uncertain,
Here we have largess of summer in fee­
Pile high the logs till the flame be leaping,
At bay the chill of the autumn keeping,
While pilgrim-wise, we may go a-reaping
In the fairest meadow of memory!
-Lucy Maud Montgomery

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