September is more than halfway over, and yet it still feels very much like summer. That's just how it is here in Texas. (Sidebar: In San Diego this summer, Lindsay Emory and I were laughing that the perfect weather we were walking around in felt like Christmas....literally.) And the full moon last night was big and bright and bronze and that feels like the signal for something to change--leaves, lives, or even just trying out that new style of undies you've seen advertised.
Fall doesn't have to be a slow slog of decay until the death that is winter.
There's beauty in it, for sure. (Although, I have to realllllly remind myself of that; I'll be sweating at the State Fair of Texas next month.) To that end, I did some doodling the other day on my handy-dandy iPad Pro and created some digital wallpapers.
>>Remember when also made some digital downloads for #ReadWritePlan? That was fun.<<
Grab your favorite fall beverage (I'm QUICKLY falling in love with the chili mocha at the 'bucks) and take some time to appreciate some beauty in change.
"To Autumn" by John Keats is a favorite. It's a poem of excess, in a way--but not that frenetic spring bacchanal. This is a poem about adulthood. Of fullness and ripening. Of naps in lazy, golden light. And the contentment in just...being.
This farmer's granddaughter encourages you to celebrate the seasons of change in your lives. Celebrate the harvest--you've worked hard to get where you are today.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.