Something about the march from summer to autumn makes me feel nostalgic. It's not just that the evenings get darker earlier, and I crave more carbs. Fall feels like change, and change makes me reflect.
Seasons hit different on an urban farm. I now spend more time outside than I have in my entire life before moving here, so I notice more subtle differences. I used to see the seasons as distinct, but now that I am paying closer attention, they're more of a spectrum or, even better, a ring. There aren't four seasons; there are thousands.
I used to think the leaves just "turned from green to yellow." But now that I look at leaves closer and more often, I can see how the way a tree holds them throughout the summer changes. Leaves will start to droop almost imperceptibly first - as if the tree that has been holding them up to the sun in defiance finally starts to tire under the posture.
As someone who has held babies and bags of groceries long past when my arms start telling me to let them down, I can empathize.
The edges of the leaves change first; they get a little crispy. Only after the minor changes start do the colors start to explode. I used to see only the most obvious colors - upon closer inspection, the changing of a single leaf is an entire world of its own. The depth and shading of the yellows, reds, and oranges are complex but also fleeting and impermanent.
Maybe that's the lesson of autumn - it's all fleeting and impermanent. That which was green just a few days ago will burn its brightest color and fade away, only to crunch under our feet.
When I was younger and stressed with trivial issues, my mantra was, "this too shall pass," so I could get through whatever thing seemed to bog down my life at the time. It was forward-looking.
Now that I'm a bit older and the world is spinning faster, the leaves are changing, and my children are moving firmly out of baby mode and finding sentience and stubbornness that is both infuriating and charming, my mantra is still, "this too shall pass," but with new meaning. I take pictures with my mind and cling to each leaf and childhood moment, remembering that it will slip through my fingertips if I appreciate it or not, so I better darn well appreciate it.
This time of year, I have to milk goats in the dark because by the time we get the human kids to bed for milking time, the sun has already set. Our milk is decreasing in volume with the colder nights and will continue to until I finally dry the girls up, but that decrease in volume means a boost in butterfat.
The goat's bodies sense the fall and want to fatten up their babies for the coming winter months. Luckily for me, all that milk goes straight into my bucket, and it's basically like goat half-and-half. It makes the cheese unreal.
I will trade milking in the dark for cheese that tastes like goat clouds any day of the week.
We will all prepare for the cold in the upcoming weeks - plants and animals alike. The goats will grow a fuzzy undercoat, those fall chickens that I hatched for spring eggs will move out to the coop, we'll gather the last of the veggies and herbs from the garden, the leaves will fall, and I'll pull the tote out of the closet with all my oversized sweaters to hide the carb indulgence.
Ultimately, it's lucky that the goats' favorite treat is the recently fallen leaves, and they eat them like Pringles. Maybe tomorrow, I'll take a few minutes to sit outside and watch the goats munch through the yard. Because, as with everything, this too shall pass.
One of my best friends, Mary Katharine Ham, opened up today about her troubling professional situation at CNN. I promised to keep this substack somewhere between a- and anti-political, but her piece and struggle are a great read for everyone.
I’m proud to have a friend who won’t just smile and be quiet. In fact, I believe her to be constitutionally incapable of it. Check out her post and story. Also, it has bonus penis jokes, so that’s always fun.
Thank you for including the essay by Mary Katherine Ham.