You may remember our family goal set earlier this year of 52 hikes or bikes for 2008. Here’s a follow-up. Nearly every Saturday and many weekdays were spent in outdoor adventures: exploring mountain trails (including a frightening face-to-face with a rattler—we let him have the right-of-way), taking walks, biking here, there, and everywhere, kids in tow. Though I’ve stopped counting, we’ve essentially met our goal—which was really just to get out—and how my cheeks glow from it.
(A forgotten pumpkin pod on a withered vine)
I am experiencing fall for the first time in three years, and I’m shocked by how much I have missed this. Right around September 1 my body yearns for a change, and when it’s not forthcoming, I long for it. Living in Utah then Arizona and now Colorado has taught me that I am unnecessarily wimpy, and I have allowed something as simple as “the weather” to dictate my mood, my activities—even to dominate my life. Growing up in Utah, I dreaded the bone-chilling cold—groaning as soon as weather in early fall demanded a jacket and sturdy shoes—and would resignedly hole up indoors until mid-April. In Arizona, it was the opposite fear: the exasperating heat. But now, back in the throes of a seasonal climate, it would be way too easy to revert to old habits, shutting myself up and shutting out opportunity for soul renewal—even before it’s even all that cold.
But no more. No longer do I want the dread of extremes to rob me of the pleasure and bliss that can be now. And when the dread is stripped away, every day is lovely. I realize now how much I really do love this time of year and what comes with it:
-A ripe harvest moon
-Curried butternut squash bisque
-The first bite into a crisp hand-picked apple
-Comfort spices: cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves
-Plump pumpkins transforming into spooky jack-o-lanterns or creamy pie
-Shedding your old self and assuming an alter ego on Halloween
-Leaves of every rustic hue—even scarlet and gold on the selfsame branch
-Cooler air which invites the novelty of the first cozying down under the covers. And snuggles
-A season of thanks—remembering God for His goodness, the bounties of the harvest and abundance of our beautiful earth
-And the subtle stirrings I feel within myself. How it coincides with the earth’s own mysterious reversal inward: we descend and turn together.
One night, kids tucked in and safe with their dad, I snuck out, even though the nippy air required the donning of several layers. I roamed, aimless, willing my mind to still. The streets were deserted, the only unnatural sound an occasional car roaring by. A slight wind whistled and swirled the crunchy leaves under my feet and crickets chirped a rhythmic refrain. The cool air felt startlingly good, and at length I gazed up at the sky, eyes affixed on the north star. My pace quickened, purposeful. I drank it all in like a thirsty sailor, unaware of how much my own inner sea had ebbed. I spoke with God that night. To any of the faceless forms in houses I passed hypnotized by the dull blue tv glow, certainly there was nothing particularly spectacular about this night. Not to them. But to me, to me. A sliver of me longed to share the loveliness of it, but it could not be squandered.
I shudder to know now that I have let falls slip by.
So I am going to make good on this. I’m right now going to take the boys for a walk in the rain.
