Pondering pumpkins

Wednesday was the autumnal equinox.

With this, I can now comfortably accept the crunchy pile of leaves that collects around the bike racks near the Henry Radford Hope School of Fine Arts. I can tape my string of kitschy synthetic leaves above my writing desk.

I can even re-unite with my warm accessory and long-missed companion, the pumpkin spice latté.

Some people cannot observe the coming of fall unless it is October, but I will celebrate the season as soon as I am allowed.

Autumn conjures a jumble of emotions as contrasting as the colors it brings in trees.
To some, fall is a time of harvest and new beginnings. John Keats called it the “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.”

Emily Dickinson wrote a description I particularly enjoy: “The maple wears a gayer scarf, the field a scarlet gown.”   

Autumn can be a time to start fresh and put the work from the past year
behind you.

It is a time to embrace the cold but still enjoy the benefits of the sun before it disappears in December. And of course, there is the simple delight as golden hues blend into leaves and décor alike.

On the flip side, William Shakespeare had a different label for fall: “Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire, that on the ashes of his youth doth lie.”

The Bard’s verses are dismal — morbid, even — associating the season with its loss.
Charles Dickens saw through a similar window when he said, “Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear! ...How like those hopes in their decay — How faded are they now!”

They both saw a period of decomposition, things coming to an end, the fading of an era we once knew.

Autumn is a time of change, introducing something to which we are foreign, as our trees catch fire and let descend their “ashes.”

Dorky though it might be to batter you with poetry, I find myself agreeing with both
illustrations of this autumnal dichotomy.

I have a tendency to give in to fall’s general glum just as much as I submit to the coziness of a scarf in crisper weather.

It is with some guilt that I say I engaged in seasonal activities early this year.

I went home and visited with my family in Chicago and in doing so, pursued as many fall shenanigans as I could manage. Anything sufficed from baking pumpkin goods to traipsing in the few leaf clusters I could find.

There is no denying the child-like giddiness with which I indulged in it.

But as Dickens so accurately points out, falling leaves induce somewhat of a sorrowful emotion. The drifting quality of autumn leads to sluggishness, which leads to brooding and reminiscence.

Autumn is a heavily nostalgic experience for me, bringing back memories of starting college for the first time and all the anxiety that came with it.

I have emotional recollections triggered by fall’s sensory characteristics, such as its distinctive chill or the smell of pumpkin pie. This creates a more vivid image as other
interlaced memories and senses form a vibrant flashback.

My youth coming to an end was so memorably nerve-wracking that I could physically feel butterflies in my stomach when I felt fall weather for the first time this year.
I was chatting with a former teacher and close friend (while drinking a hot pumpkin spice latté, of course) about this aversion we have to autumn.

She agreed that the transitional seasons could inspire creative emotions as well as depressive ones.

With the lethargy of the cold and the mulling over of autumn’s past, this drawl led us to listen to doleful bands, such as The National and Noah and the Whale when trees start to change.

In dealing with this season-driven melancholy, my companion developed a simple, yet sincere consolation.

Autumn is a means of coping with who you used to be and coming to terms with who you are now.

Coming back to Indiana from Chicago, I packed a bag of all my sweaters and a Tupperware container full of pumpkin cookies.

As the trees are just barely coming full circle, it is easy to find beauty in this colorful death.

So as the air begins to cool and the campus is speckled with tints of yellow and red, I encourage you to pour a mug of cider and reminisce fondly.

Autumn has just barely peeked through her orange fingers.


E-mail: ftirado@indiana.edu