No matter how many years I’m away from academic schedule, fall still seems to me like the true beginning of the year, and fall rushed in here this week with a cold wind and a rattle of the windows and it felt so good to wear a sweater for the first time. I have perfume with cinnamon in it and clove, and a bike I’m eager to ride through the leaves. Spent the afternoon wandering through this,.
This is the time when things start, it seems, projects, plans, stocking up on tomatoes and apples to make pies and sauces for winter. I read the Little House books when I was a kid and suffered through canning lessons from my grandmother as a teenager, but I’m a city girl through and through; autumn mainly means Ginger-Spiced Coffee will be available at the shop near the L stop where I go to write sometimes. Autumn means pens and pencils, fresh sheafs of looseleaf paper, a red three-ring binder with which to store the eight chapters of my manuscript.
The new year’s never seemed auspicious to me; I’m never doing anything too wild or crazy, it’s dark and cold and that point in the year when I wish we humans hibernated: there’s no point to getting out of bed if the sun can’t even be bothered. February on the horizon, my least favorite month next to March, which comes after; late winter’s torturous. Autumn’s heaven, all warm scarves and anticipation of Christmas.
Fall, when everything is dying, seems to me to be a much better time to start.