I remember reading a poem a long time ago that began “There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood.” (Bliss Carman, A Vagabond Song). I’ve never forgotten it, and I think about it every year around this time, when the air starts to cool and the leaves start to change the world somehow seems calmer, quieter, yet more colorful and more full of possibility.
Because that feels true for me. I love seasons. I love living in a place where there are seasons (real ones), and I have a certain affection for each of them. But autumn has always been the season I feel most at home in, the one I always long to wrap around me like a blanket and lie down to sleep in. Like Truman Capote, “Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.”
That’s felt especially true since I moved to New York. I’ve been here a little over three years now, and fall is by far my favorite time in the city. I don’t know why, but New York always seems at its best drenched in autumn sunlight, its streets scattered with bright orange and red and yellow leaves. It feels hopeful somehow, expectant. Like the beginning of something. And I suppose there is something very beautiful and poetic about that that I just cannot resist. I never could.
So like always, I will try my best to embrace the spirit of all that marvelous possibility, and to enjoy it while I can. To make good use of my fall wardrobe and to watch way too many Meg Ryan movies and autumn-themed episodes of Gilmore Girls and to re-read Practical Magic. To sleep with my windows open and walk through Central Park, in all its golden splendor, as many times as I am able. To feel all the things autumn makes me feel, has always made me feel, as deeply and graciously as possible–the coziness and the nostalgia and the contentment and the longing. To wake up each morning and say to myself, and to believe, in the words of Dorothea Grossman, “It is autumn again, and I can do anything.”