An autumn ode

I love autumn.

I’m not bitterly mourning the loss of days at the beach or 80 degree weather. Instead, I’m enjoying the unique combination of crisp air and warm sun, of the new coloring of trees and of the memories locked away in autumn.

Something about fall draws out what is expressive and even effusive in me, awakening the childish urge to crunch leaves beneath my feet and rake a pile to jump in. When that is done, my memory tells me we’ll have a bonfire to stay warm and then sing songs, watch fireflies and wrap the blanket tighter.

Autumn sings a more melancholy song than spring, but one no less meaningful.
Perhaps the season of autumn is especially meaningful to me because it stirs up memories of home and of nature, two things that have been associated with this season even before it was called “autumn.”

Before the 16th century, the English referred to this season as “harvest,” the time for bringing nature’s produce into storage. “Nature” was precious for the food it provided for the cold winter ahead, and “home” was precious as a place of storing that provender.
With the shift from people working the land to living in towns, “harvest” lost its reference to the time of year and “autumn” began to replace it. But the word “autumn” still calls forth the feelings of the security of home and of the beauty of nature – and nature’s comforts come especially to those who linger in its beauty.

British poet William Wordsworth did this often, as in his 1802 poem “Upon Westminster Bridge,” which offers a description of London in mid-autumn: “Earth has not anything to show more fair: / Dull would he be of soul who could pass by / A sight so touching in its majesty.”

Wordsworth knew that seasons are best appreciated when we can just stand still and bask in their colors and smells. And like him, we have favorite spots and views that we consider the most picturesque.

A favorite spot of mine in the past was from my reading room on Headington Hill. I could look up from my book to see Oxford, with the steeple of St. Mary’s and the rest of the “dreamy spires,” silhouetted against the setting sun in the west.

In Bloomington, one iconic view is of the Indiana Memorial Union, which I have affectionately dubbed “Bloomington Castle” as if to replace Oxford’s fortifications in my mind. Another is from Showalter Fountain west down Seventh Street, with its row of trees, bright red now.

Still another favorite spot is along the Jordan River. En route to the Fine Arts Library last Tuesday, I could hardly help but stop and sit down there among the leaves, if only for a few minutes.

We are about halfway through our semester and, unlike some other colleges, make do without a fall break. The colors and beauty of autumn are beckoning us, though, to take short breaks and bask in life, in leaves underfoot and in our next breath.