Emily Articulated: Reflections of fall

By Emily Erickson
Reader Columnist

And just like that, it feels like fall. It’s not the temperature, exactly. Nor is it the reddening leaves or the turning of a calendar page. It’s the way the sun seems to linger, hanging on like it knows it’s almost time to leave. It clings to the grass, golden stalks sparkling as they sway in the winds of change. It settles onto horizon lines, hanging generously — still generously — in the sky, as if to say, “I won’t always be here, so be sure to feel me.”

But the chill is nearing, too. Just as the sun clings to the end of summer, crisp air and darkness begin their descent, ready with questions we’re too busy to ask ourselves: “Are you ready to slow down yet?” and, “Do you remember the romance of me, too?”

The chill whispers memories of candles and stove flames bouncing their light and warmth around a darkened room; of blankets stacked on top of one another; of early, restful nights; and skies bursting with white and yellow stars. 

It’s not ready to be here yet, either, but it knows its wait is waning.

These are the tensions of fall: one season not quite ready to leave while another prepares itself to arrive.

I am susceptible to following the seasons’ cues, welcoming newness and change along with fall. The changing season also happens to coincide with my birthday (which is a real double whammy for someone predisposed to introspection at baseline).

Every year, I’m prone to daydreams of throwing out all my clothes or shaving my head, or staring into the existential void and contemplating all the things I’ll eventually run out of time to know. I’m also prone to interpreting relatively normal things as deeply meaningful.

Like my bike ride yesterday. I sat with my feet cinched to the pedals of a spin bike at the YMCA, sweat dripping onto a plastic mat below me, while the instructor spoke through my headphones, her face filling my phone screen. She said the intention she was bringing to the class was a reminder to focus — to put our attention into the things that move us forward, toward the kind of life we want to have and the people we want to be. (Yes, a slightly ironic message for someone literally spinning in place.)

Still, it clunked into place, reaching me in the particular way messages sometimes can when you have nowhere else to go. She made eye contact with the camera, but also, somehow, with everyone who needed to hear it. Me.

She went on to make a distinction between energy and effort. Energy, she said, is what we focus on. Effort is what we put behind it. This made sense to me. A lot of us put a lot of effort into things without first distinguishing where it’s going. We exhaust ourselves with schedules we don’t remember choosing, commitments we should have let go of or relationships we’ve outgrown — a perpetual peddling in circles that leaves us just as tired, if not more so, than we would be if we had paused long enough to make sure we were pointed where we actually wanted to go.

This idea of being more deliberate about where I direct my energy and effort is what I want to carry with me as I welcome fall. 

I love a new season the way I love mornings: for the prospect of all that lies ahead. First, there is coffee, but then there is endless potential — a seeking of self, connection, beauty, growth.

Today, in this season, maybe I’m the kind of person who takes her supplements on time, who has a daily writing practice, who switches to tea before caffeine gives her the jitters. I’m the kind of person who strength trains and drinks enough water, who makes time for art and for walking slowly through the woods. I’m a patient person, a kind person, an inspired person.

This season, maybe I’ll also be the kind of person who revels in the extra darkness as more time to cling to the moments after I wake up, tucked between two snoring dogs and my partner, their warmth emanating, their breathing rhythmic. I want to smell woodsmoke and hear a fire crackling, to listen to rain on the windowpane and know it’s going to be a good day.

This season, this me, and that life is where I’ll be pointing my energy, and what I’ll be putting my effort into creating. (Well, at least until the sun sets at 4:30 p.m. and all I can do is survive.)

Emily Erickson is a writer and business owner with an affinity for black coffee and playing in the mountains. Connect with her online at www.bigbluehat.studio.