Fall

It astounds me how interconnected the seasons are, how shifting into one so profoundly calls up the other three. I am feeling the urge, as I do every fall, to lie down like a leaf in the deep forest, where no one treads, and become the soil. Just lie there as the fall deepens and turns to winter, as the snow comes and then piles up, foot upon foot, until spring awakens me again to the wonder of sunlight, warmth, and greenery.

The prospect of weathering another winter is wearying, yet I must prepare for it. Part of preparing for winter is preparing for spring. I was raised (I use the term loosely) in a California farming town in the San Joaquin Valley- that wide, fertile swath of land that joins Southern and Northern California. There, then, I was unaware of the seasons; though they, of course, occurred, the changes they brought were on a much milder scale than here in Western Massachusetts. There was less urgency, less need for the average person to weatherize their psyche.

I moved to Western Massachusetts in the winter of 1994, a record year for ice storms. I owned no parka, warm sweaters, hats, gloves, boots- no winter gear whatsoever. People told me that I would need to become a "snow bunny" to enjoy living here and to that I thought, "Fuck you." I longed for the beaches of Hawai'i, pined for the sheer cliffs, grand volcanic mountains, towering waterfalls, massive bamboo forests, and warm, wild ocean. I was miserable.

As the years passed, I acquired the appropriate winter gear that, at least, allowed me a modicum of comfort in a season I despised. Slowly, I began to accept that this is where my life was taking place, whether I liked it or not, so I'd better get with the program or I was going to become a bitterly unhappy, damaged person. I don't remember when I began to see myself as part of this ecosystem. It was years into living here, certainly. For so long I considered myself a foreigner, but at some point it dawned on me that adaptation was all that I had on my side.

Now, with each seasonal shift, I watch myself, I observe the shifts that happen within me and see how they mirror what is happening without. My son exclaimed, two nights ago, "It's 7 o'clock and it's as dark as midnight!" Indeed, the night comes sooner and falls darker than it did mere weeks ago, and with that darkening I watch my mind shift into a deep introspection, I witness myself preparing, mentally, for the long, cold season of darkness.

Because I live in a New England farming community, where we are so subject to the seasons, I have come to see myself akin to the flora and fauna surrounding me, I have come to identify with both the farmer and the crop. The farmer, in fall, is pulling the very last good food from the field and storing it for winter sustenance. In winter, the farmer has plenty of time to ponder, plot, and plan in preparation for spring's planting. "What will I plant in spring?" the farmer is thinking, and, in a way, those "seeds" have been planted.

Like the farmer, I find myself drawing in my late harvest, choosing what will sustain me for the winter and what I should discard. I am acknowledging that winter, that season of fallow fields, is coming very soon and preparing myself to meet its demands. Here, winter demands that we submit to its will. Yes, we can find ways to play with its snow, its intense cold, the ice that forms on the ponds, but these are still a submission. Winter wins.

As fall deepens, I recognize that winter will, once again, have its way with me, and ask me to decide what seeds I will plant in spring, grow in summer, and harvest again next fall. One season can never stand alone.

Today, I watch the gray and white clouds move swiftly across a blue sky and feel the forest calling. I want to walk for hours, until I can walk no further, then lie down like a leaf and merge. I don't want to face winter standing, I don't want to have to be so strong.