Presenting itself as the humbler form of summer, the warmth of sun sufficiently absorbed so that its light is captured in the form of color, burnt-crisp to the touch and tactile only by the gentler chastisation of rain. Despite its exhausted state of popularity, its forgiveness is finally granted and sunlight –again received with thanks- returns amongst the fog of fall. Summer long enjoyed to the point of spoilage, autumn must be the result. However, it is not with despise that the change is made, for the transition it offers into the harshness of winter is very polite. It seems that fall is a revealing season. Likewise to the baring of the trees is the soul as it stands scaled to the exposure of summertime secrets and of its body’s skin-deep, yet façade-like tan. The seasons of the school years commencement, of new relationships, of revelation and reevaluation of self, and of family reconciliation; each simultaneous to fall. Fall is a healing era within the year, but healing through assessment and activated by second chances. Similar to these revolutionary aspects, is the fact that fall is my most likely time for far-future dreaming. Spring holds opportunity, and marks the start for the improved version of life and that of reality. Summer is the living out of that hoped for and those expectations formed for the desirable version of ourselves. Where these are attainable they are sought, but where it is more unlikely, impulsive dreams take their place and we begin to drift whimsicality. Fall however –to me- is the season of raw reality; life as it truly is, and not that which we hoped for. In contrast, it is also a time for similarly realistic dreaming.
As I am over-whelmed by the comfort and reoccurring familiarity of fall traditions on most years, I find a little bit of curiosity and longing for diversity among the season- and really, within life as a whole. The home-style foods long implemented within my heritage as it has been in America, and more specifically in Iowa are most prevalent in fall. As cliché as it sounds, this is the time of year in which the bounty is brought in and our plates are full of things of the earth planted and collected by the toil of my father and uncle’s. Aside from the fact that I am the youngest in my family of five children- the site of restlessness, these traditions are not my style. I prefer diversity and callowness. Reoccurring as the season is my feeling of restlessness for further discovery of the nation I roam on minimal terms. Just as faithfully, I receive contact from my eldest sister, every fall season, who has fallen into the trance which the West Coast has to offer. Her annual longing for the Midwestern autumn is a black speck on a sheet of paper compared to her otherwise year-round babblings of mountain biking, hiking trips, visits to Seattle along the scenic coast, and the down-town life that Sacramento has to offer. Each of these are typically more exciting than that of the activities and amenities available in her home state of Iowa. The common homesickness between my three nationally spread sisters, is the longing for the sensation of the fall experience at home. It is sure that I will always have a place in my heart -no matter where I go- for fall in the Midwest. The most ideal version of the autumn season is due to the deciduous trees, cool temperatures which still include a variety of rain and sun, and –even to my occasional despise- the greatest production of the harvest can all be found in Iowa. I will especially remember to cherish my time here while I enjoy the exclusive epitome of autumn and its humbling characteristics in one of the more humble regions of America.
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