Autumn is the eternal corrective. It is ripeness and color and a time of maturity; but it is also breadth, and depth, and distance. What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach to the far horizon? // Hal Borland
Autumn is my very favorite season of the natural world.
When the lazy heat of sluggish Summer makes room for cooler days, my heart skips a beat. When the oppressive humidity eases into dry breezes (and my hair stops frizzing out), something stirs in my soul.
And when all the luscious green gives way to fiery colors and the smoke of bonfires hangs in the evening air, I feel an aching in my very core.
It’s an awakening. A longing.
Suddenly, the world becomes clearer. The Summer haze disappears with the Autumn wind, and it somehow touches me inside, stirring up my memory of Heaven.
The days get shorter, the chill gets deeper, the smell in the air becomes tainted with decaying leaves. Winter is coming. Advent draws near. This world is not the end.
And the longing grows.
Autumn, for me, is the season of happy restlessness. It calls me out of the carelessness of Summer and blows my soul, with fires rekindled, toward the beauty of what’s most Real.