The foreshortening of the days becomes apparent as August passes. The quality of the afternoon light changes, somehow, a subtle shift toward golden as our half of the planet gradually shifts away from the sun. Fall is coming. It’s still hot as Hades in Atlanta most days and some nights, and it will be for some time. But tonight, our windows are open to the crickets and tree frogs. Soon it will be cool enough that I will be able to run outside again. The trees will pull their energy inward, bursting their forgotten leaves into bright deaths, and scattering them under our feet. In time, I will be staring in amazement, once again, at the gorgeous variety of colors this planet grants us in its annual waning season.
Fall used to mean the thrill of going back to school–-the possibility of seeing many friends I had missed all summer long; the football games on Friday nights; the new adventures and activities that the school year would bring. I was able to cling to all of that longer than many, because my first job out of college was working on parent involvement in Title I elementary schools. I saw fall leaf collages and glitter-painted jack-o-lanterns long after most of my friends had entered the corporate world.
My time in the schools passed, eventually. Out of the school link, for a while, each year, fall only made me falter. Fall and I have a bittersweet relationship, you see. As the light wanes and the leaves change, my heart reminisces, recalls a variety of events and people long past. Like the trees, my heart turns inward. I experience a season of recalled loss as the winter approaches. It’s not entirely bad: it’s cleansing, in a way, to have a distinct period of remembrance where my emotional tides run a bit higher than usual before my equilibrium returns. During this time, I am able to reflect on some issues more deeply than I can during the rest of the year. My life is tinged with depression during that time, though, and if I am not careful, I can become consumed with the darker side of my fall experience.
So it’s also good to have unabashed joy in the midst of sorrow, and boy, do I have that again these days as in the days of school. For many years, I ate whatever the grocery store had to offer me on a given day; but now, I eat seasonally, based on what the earth is producing near my home at any time of year. I began eating seasonally to be more environmentally conscientious, but eating this way has benefited me in ways I had not anticipated. Eating what is in season means that each season in turn brings its unique joys, and fall may be the greatest. (Then again, I may think each season brings the greatest joy as I anticipate its bounty: I was absolutely ecstatic this spring and summer at the first blackberry, the first tomato, the first corn.) I have reached the stage of summer where I am still enjoying the tomatoes, zucchinis, and peppers that are so prevalent, but where my mind’s eye is also turning toward what is coming. Butternut squash, frost-sweetened turnip greens, sweet potatoes, turnips: the rich foods of fall’s hearty stews, pies, casseroles, and puddings tickle my fancy. The idea of putting on a sweater to go to a pumpkin patch makes me want to hug myself in excitement.
Of course, I could go to the store now and buy the butternut squash, greens, pumpkin, and sage to make my autumn-themed lasagna. I could do that. But I would miss out on much of what makes the experience so grand if I did that. When I was younger, I had no sense of how reasonably imposed self-restrictions could bring joy; I wanted everything my way as soon as possible, as much as possible. But eating seasonally means I have to—and get to—wait for the best possible produce for my health and for the planet’s health: produce that has been picked within 48 hours of when I buy it, and often as little as six hours before I eat it. It means that I get to go to the farmer’s market held in the park near my apartment, talk with the farmers, and experience the whole scene of fall as I prepare to eat fall’s bounty. Whole, fresh, organic fruits and vegetables are free of allergens and gluten, so it means I get to go have a beautiful food culture experience without fear of harming my body. It means that instead of my food traveling 1500 miles to reach me, as is the average for US’s inhabitants’ food, I get food that has traveled at most 120 miles to find its way to me. I reduce the gas and pollution created by my food needs, and I get the food I purchase when it’s still at its peak of the vitamins (and taste!) it can offer me. And it means I get the sweet anticipation of what’s coming, the thrill of wondering when I will go to the farmer’s market and find the first fall pear waiting for me to rush it home, slice it thinly, and feed slices to myself and my husband as we stand over the kitchen sink. It takes the transactions of the food system out of the hands of corporations and marketers and makes those transactions take place between farmers, good people who are striving to make an honest wage, and me, a good person striving to do right by herself and others. Simple, and beautiful.