The Breath of Fall

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This morning, fall swept away the heat of summer and blew in fresh, clean air. I hope it stays this way.

Autumn is my very favorite time of year. The coolness it brings rejuvenates my soul. In its crispness I feel every part of me awake to take in its splendor. I am alive.

Yet with the joy of autumn comes the waning of sunlight and the decay of summer--and with the dull array of orange and brown comes the homesickness, the longing for the vibrant reds and golds of my beloved New England.

But all the sweeter is joy tinged with sorrow; the more resolute contentedness that prevails over the longings of the heart.

Four and a half years ago we left Northeast for Southeast. It's not that I dislike the South, but with every sweltering summer, each wet, brown, dreary winter, I long for the genial summers and snowy winters of New England.* I am homesick.

Though the first four years of my life were spent down South, my childhood memories lie North. Some of the sweetest of these took place in my favorite time of year--autumn. So each fall, when the nights grow cool, the mornings crisp, the trees ocher**, nostalgia creeps over me. I miss the cooler, crisper, more vivid autumns of my former home. I miss my old friends. I am homesick.

But reminiscing over time past will never bring it back, nor do memories ever satisfy the desires of the present. I am here and I cannot change that, and many good things have come out of living here that wouldn't have happened if I hadn't moved. I am busy enough tending to the present and preparing for the future. I don't have time to daydream of my old life.

I must look ahead, and move on.

I don't know if life, or God, will ever take me back to New England to live permanently, but a little piece of my heart always lies there.


*I know, should I ever move back, I would utterly revoke the latter part of that statement mid-February.
**I hope that word isn't too heavily associated with the 70s to lose any semblance of contrived poeticness.