I feel slightly guilty for having a favorite season. It feels a little like preferring one child over another.
There are aspects of every season that I love — at least for a little while. The flushed heat of summer feels welcome in June, but by September, I’m ready for a change. The first snow of winter seems magical, but by February I’m longing to be snow-free and see spring.
Ah, spring! Lime green leaves sprouting on every branch, flowers exploding colorfully into bloom, baby animals frolicking on emerald grass. All that newness and color and life.
Still, it’s not spring that wins me.
Over and over again, I fall for autumn.
The sky has a distinct crispness and the air contains a tang of dust and dry leaves. Said leaves chorus in a rustle with the wind. The colors of the fields and trees transform, flush with the last hurrah before they drop.
I welcome the morning chill that requires a fluffy robe and slippers accompanied by a cup of hot tea. I also love the warm sunshine of the afternoon, perfect for puttering in the garden or taking a walk. And every year, I suddenly, inexplicably feel a strong urge to bake and to make soup.
Many people tell me they prefer spring to fall, for fall reminds them that winter comes next, when many things die and the trees and fields look barren. But I love autumn, in part, because it is followed by winter. I love that the world can celebrate itself even in the face of death and decay, that the leaves can shout “look at me!” as they display their last hurrah before letting go of life and making their way to earth. And there I walk among their myriad colors, nudging them to their final resting place where they will become one with the soil once more.