An ode to fall

There’s a crispness in the air, a sign that fall is near. I’m ready for falling leaves, trees the color of sunset, chilly mornings, and the smell of fall (a mixture of damp leaves, harvest, and goodness).

Middle Tennessee woke up to the first actual fall-like morning since fall was officially ushered in last week. It’s hard to get into the festive pumpkin-leaves-and-pumpkin spice spirit when it’s 90 degrees outside.

But today, the day dawned cool and crisp. A leaf caught up in a sudden burst of wind skittered across the pavement in front of me, making the scratchy sound of fall. If I were in Missouri, it would smell like harvest—like cotton warmed by the sun, grains, the sweetish smell of motor oil, hay, and dried corn. (I grew up with farmers.)

When the weather starts to turn toward fall, my soul rejoices. It’s my favorite season, this shift between the heat and humidity of busy summer to the more temperate, restful, shorter days of fall.

I long to sit on my patio wrapped in blanket just drinking a cup of coffee.

I long for that first night when you can kind of see your breath fog into a frost.

I find myself thinking about soups, apple pie, and bonfires.

I long for quiet nights by the fire, boots, and jackets.

I think I love fall because for me, it symbolizes rest. Growing up on a farm, fall meant an ending point to all the busyness. It was that time when you got to see the results of your labor, and whether they were good or bad, at some point the work was done and the harvest was complete. And you didn’t have to work from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. anymore. The long days were over; the season of rest had come.

Let the season of rest come in my life this fall.

(And let me wear boots while I’m resting.)