The renewal we need

Autumn is easily my favorite time of year.

When I was growing up in Denmark, that used to be the month of September. Clear blue skies, crisp still air, cold in the morning as I biked to school, but heating up later so I could sit outside and read. Living in New York City, it used to be the end of September, maybe first week of October. That one week of perfect weather. Sunny. Chill. Air that feels cleaner, somehow, as if someone had purified it all summer and suddenly injected it into an atmosphere that had been feeling heavy with odors and grime for months.

It’s the sense of renewal I am drawn to. The way nature prepares itself, stubbornly and with joy, for the colder season ahead, turning mourning into a dance, with the certain knowledge that it all comes back. Some years ago when I was going through a particularly brutal break-up, I remember pegging my grief to the leaves. I knew they had to wither, fall off, and turn into mulch before I’d feel better again. It would take time, but it was a physical process I could watch, something that helped me see I was on the right path even if I still felt empty: the trees were still empty too, it was all part of a plan.

I am thinking about the turning of the seasons this morning as the knowledge of the climate disaster we are causing is settling in my bones. The recent flooding. The storms. The oppressive summer temperatures projected well into October. What will the seasons look like for my adult daughter when she grows up? What renewal is possible?

I know nature is resilient. More than us, anyway, and certainly more forgiving. I hold that knowledge close as the cool morning air reaches my seat. The grief I feel is heavier than any break-up. It holds the work we have ahead of us to reconcile with each other and the earth.