I have a confession to make: Fall is my favorite time of year. That may sound like a pretty tame admission, but I expect almost everyone that knows me would be astounded to hear it. To them, I am known as a lover of the heat—sunshine and hot, humid days are what I prefer, it’s true.
I live in Ottawa, Canada, where winter seems to last nine months of the year. The only warm weather we can expect is in the months of June, July and August, and even then it’s not always a guarantee. As a result, I spent much of the year wrapped in a blanket beside a roaring fire and dreaming of long sultry summer days. I think about the pool parties and barbeques, the long evening walks, and the possible spontaneity if I don’t have to don ten layers of clothing just to leave the house.
But there’s something anti-climactic about summer when it finally arrives; it never quite lives up to expectations. The kids aren’t in school and they have their own plans. Bedtimes and mealtimes are irregular, and the long-awaited vacation is hectic and rushed. So it is with tremendous relief that when September arrives, routine returns, and activities and friendships that were suspended over the summer are resumed and renewed.
There is something pure in the crisp autumn air that revives my spirit. There is beauty in the reds and golds of the changing leaves that speaks to my soul. It is a time of reflection, of giving thanks, and realigning priorities. A part of me knows that fall is the harbinger of winter—that in a few short weeks I will be lamenting the cold and wishing for summer again—but for now, I am enraptured by the splendor of the season. Each glorious day is a gift—one more day winter has been held at bay.
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