Ready or Not
It’s the Time Between Times when Summer works a bit too hard to convince Autumn there’s nothing to get in a big rush about.
What I like about it:
The color. It’s nothing like where I grew up, back in Michigan. Colorado is indeed colorful…but, nothing like back east. It’s cool. And the near-constant brilliant sunshine doesn’t hurt either.
The food. There are whole meals and recipes that just don’t seem right any other time of the year. That’s a no-brainer. Like Cute Redhead’s stew. September through Early Spring? Absolutely. Have seconds. But during the Summer? It simply Isn’t Done.
The clothing. The warmer clothing and the bundling up for outdoor games and all that goes with it. Love it.
The kids. The kids. Because we’ve dusted off the chessboard and the Monopoly…and the fireplace in front of which they’ll play out all kinds of challenges and arguments is just itching for a four-alarm inferno.
What I don’t like about it:
The cold. The coming winter and the weather that means closing in, closing up, and covering over. Whether snow, or sweaters, or doors which, left open even a minute, wrest all the comfort from an otherwise comfortable home. It’s just too confining for my tastes.
What I’ve grown to be okay with:
The dying. I mean the loud Winter Autumn announces with a single breeze. And how it really is about releasing the beautiful, though not entirely authentic green adorning every tree and bush, so that the real color of each can come forward.
And, coming forward, show the rest of the world, if we’re watching (and even if we’re not), that there is great beauty in the cycle of death.
Ready or not, here it comes.
Wondering what you think of the change of the seasons. Anyone?
I love Autumn. The sun dawning gently immerse in roses, oranges and blues. The long song of the wind coming through the changing trees; the carpet of leaves dancing in the air and gently kissing the the soil; the apple trees, the pear tress, the vineyard, colured in browns and yelows, the grapes round and full of sweet flesh; the fireplace; the soft of wood, the elegance of the cold season.
The hidden melancholy of the bear trees, the last roses, small and delicate; the soft touch of the almost green grass.
The puring rain; the smell of baked cookies; the last song of the little birds that are going away. The chesnuts full of fruits; one sunflower following the dying sun, so untouchable, so oblicuos and soft as a gentle kiss… And the eternal song of death and rebirth.
Someone get this man a contract. Nicely said, Júan.
Thanks, Todd. Very kind of you.