It Is that time of year when the morning air feels like it has a little memory in it.
The mist rolls off the Des Plaines river like an old story trying to be retold, and even the lions roar from the zoo sounds more like groans on an early Monday morning. The days shorten, but the meaning grows deeper. That is autumn, the great balancer.
Keats called it the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Not because everything is dying, but because everything has been earned. The farmers have brought in the crop. The rest of us are starting to count our blessings and our bruises.
It is not the time for fireworks or beach parties. It is the time for slow coffee, rugby on Saturday, football on Sunday, and that quiet walk around the block, trying to remember the smell of burnt leaves in the distant air.
Thanksgiving is thirty-eight days away, but it isn’t just a date, it’s a destination. A reminder that gratitude isn’t found in the turkey or the pie; it is found in the people who still sit at the table.
Mardi Gras is one hundred and twenty days off, the other end of the see-saw. When we will trade sweaters for beads, roasts for revelry, and we settle our debts with a dance before Lent resets the meter.
Two of my favorite holidays.
So this morning, take your coffee to the window and breathe in the cool mist. Remember what you have harvested this year….
…the work you put in, the people that you love and the lessons that came with a bruise or two.
Because autumn isn’t about what is ending, but about what has been earned.
Kick the crap out of Monday and start a good week. We are well into the backend of October.
