Gentle Autumns A Quiet Renewal

Sometimes, I think we’ve gotten terribly complicated about these turning points. September arrives, the light shifts ever so slightly, and suddenly everyone feels compelled to overhaul their entire lives. New routines! New goals! New wardrobes! As if a few degrees cooler weather and a blush of color on the leaves warrants a complete emotional and practical reconstruction. I’ve been there, of course. We all have, at some point. The pressure to *begin again* is a powerful thing.

I remember years ago, feeling that desperate need for a fresh start every autumn. A fresh start at teaching, a fresh start at keeping the house tidy, a fresh start at being…well, *better*. It was exhausting, really. And often, those grand plans would fizzle out by Thanksgiving, leaving me feeling even more discouraged than before. What had I done wrong? Why couldn't I just *stick* to it?

This year feels different. Retirement has, in its own quiet way, recalibrated my expectations. The sudden absence of that relentless weekday schedule has given me a certain perspective. It’s shown me that true renewal isn’t about sweeping changes, but about noticing the subtle shifts already occurring.

My garden, for example. I didn’t undertake some huge, ambitious project this summer. Just a few extra rows of herbs, a couple of late-blooming sunflowers, some zinnias that burst into color with unexpected vibrancy. And now, as the days shorten, I’m not lamenting the loss of those sunny blooms. Instead, I’m appreciating the beauty of their fading glory, gathering seeds for next year, preparing the beds for a quiet rest.

It’s a similar thing with my reading. I’ve been delving into some rather dense astrological texts, something I used to keep rather private, a little hobby tucked away in the margins of my teaching life. Now, it’s become something of a focus. It’s not about becoming a perfect astrologer, or even understanding everything I read. It’s simply about observing, reflecting, and allowing the patterns to reveal themselves in their own time.

Phyllis and I had a small gathering for the autumn equinox. Just the two of us, in the backyard. We made a simple apple cake and sat in the fading light, talking about…well, not much of consequence, really. But it felt profoundly restorative. No pressure, no elaborate preparations, just quiet companionship and the turning of the season.

This year, I'm letting go of the urge to reinvent myself. I’m choosing to embrace the gentle descent into autumn, to savor the slower pace, to find contentment in the small rituals that nourish my soul. A warm cup of tea in the late afternoon. A walk in the woods, just to listen to the rustling leaves. A quiet hour with a book.

Perhaps, instead of launching ourselves into a flurry of activity, we could all simply *be* for a while. Let the season unfold around us. Allow ourselves to be changed by it, slowly, organically, like the leaves themselves. There’s a quiet strength in that, a deep and abiding peace. And isn’t that what we’re all searching for, really?