Sui Generis

Autumn used to be my favorite season.

The vibrant colors, the brisk mountain air, the looming atmosphere of something amiss...it's lost its touch on me as the years go by. Sure, the colors are always striking to the eye, but I've still yet to become adjusted to the stark drop-off in temperatures. Is that enough reasoning to have a broken relationship with a season? Well, it's more than that. Symbolically, Autumn is a time of change. Preparation for the still, dead, white winter we begrudgingly endure until the rebirth of life, abundance of growth, and resurgence of the sun. Remarkably poetic, when you put it that way. But is the rotational axis of the Earth relative to the position of a big ball of gas in the sky in which determines climate patterns really something to get choked up over? Under these terms, it's truly nothing special. But humanity has a uniquely special tendency to layer our own meanings and associations of feeling and emotion within our hearts. Why let that go to waste? I fully have taken advantage, and the feelings that correlate with Summer take me away so much more carelessly than what Autumn greets me with nowadays. Bright skies, warm memories, the freedom and boundlessness that is promised...how so I long for that pleasure. Perhaps my differing perspective towards Autumn is attributed to the link in its roots as compared to one of my biggest fears in life:

Things change. Like it or not.

Change should not easily and automatically be burdened with the brand of tainted fate. In fact, the word on the street is that change is a fairly positive thing. Out with the old, in with the new as they say. During one of many of my morning commutes via bicycle, I've had a lot of time to soak in the feelings of change. The weather, the leaves, life itself transcends these very changes. Of course, life is not limited to change along with the seasons, but the spotlight seems to shine so overbearingly bright on existence's inevitable progression as change is exhibited all around us. It's definitely much tougher to see the light upon the realization that during Autumn, everything is dying. Yet, we encapsulate the beauty in death, rather not in the physical sense but concentrated instead on the metaphorical. Why is it that we watch so stoically while the leaves which fall and wisp away in the wind reach their termination, but weep at the sight of the flora and blossoms withering and wilting their petals away? I asked myself this question several days ago, and I didn't really have an answer for myself. I couldn't make the connection to why I felt like I did, and only recently have I found the answer that has me restoring my blog to its former glory in order to answer my own musings and shed some of my own mindset with you, my friend!

Leaves have uniformity.

There are thousands of millions of billions of leaves clinging to twigs and branches. Practically scrap to the world of botany. We care no more about the falling leaves than we do the snowflakes that melt upon our warm cheeks in the coming winter, because of the commonality in their appearance. Only when these nuisances begin to show their true colors do we appreciate their being. Is this telling of the ego of the human spirit? I find it to be more based on tradition rather than any sort of narcissism. From childhood it's a common (if not the first) association we place with Autumn: the changing of the colors. Although the attention of leaves are fixed upon one season, we still tend to acknowledge their presence, or lack thereof, through other senses; the rustling in the breeze, the crunch underneath our feet, the absence which leaves trees bare against a blank landscape. There isn't as much potency to our reflection upon leaves until Spring, but even yet the focus tends to be on the budding plants around the leaves. But what makes extravagant flowers so different? The mere existence of flowers is a miracle. How the flower came to be is proof of something so minuscule thriving into a medium where its delicacy can be captivated upon. Planting the seed, tender care, germination, patience, growth, and finally the climax of blossoming elegance. The manifestation of our own persistence...gone so suddenly, taken by Earth's cold embrace. Without warning, resentment, or even a simple apology, Autumn neglects our dedication and revokes us of our desire to take pride in what we have done, leaving only a memory.

And that is where Autumn and life strain me alike.

Yeah, I know you don't read this blog to hear about the misery and woe in my life, but since the equinox life hasn't been too kind. It's to a point where I feel as if there is nowhere else to go. Nobody else to turn to. So, hey, why not a couple hundred people who care enough to listen to what I say? Loss is an inexorable piece of our lives. Currently and constantly I combat a cruel seasonal reminder that the efflorescence in life has come to a conclusion in several facets, cut by the thorns that have stemmed through my creation. My garden of Eden has been reduced to a plot of dirt in the land. Never before have I bore torment so excruciatingly, and yet I do not miss this experience. I don't want to delve too specifically into details for my own privacy, but death both physically and symbolically has gripped some of my most meaningful belongings and tore them from my clutches. In some cases, it is nearly as unbearable as literal death in the sense that I must live day to day with the renewed anxiety in knowledge that the dilemma presently exists and imminently could get worse. I've pooled tears, tossed and turned, praying for the stillness of Winter to save me from the modifications Autumn has wrecked indiscriminately. I am desperate for the silencing of these changes. Emptiness has filled my heart. Is there any redemption in sight?

Absolutely.

I am broken, knocked down a peg, still raw with the open wound of loss. However, time heals all wounds. As easily as the leaves die away, it is with the foresight that we will see them again once more. When that day will be cannot be said for sure, but there is a strange sort of faith that the sun will rise in the east and set in the west. Over and over and over until the bird's melody welcomes a brighter day. The fact that the phenomenon of cessation will occur is no reason to despair. Rebirth restores the chance of reliving the feelings we held in the past, and reinventing them for the future. Less of a goodbye, and more of a 'see you later'. The shrubbery planted in my empty plot may not be exactly the same as the one I had loved and admired before, but it is as genetically close as possible that optimistically we may feel the same adoration as we once did. Although we may become otherwise disillusioned at times, we have just as little control of our own lives as we do control of the seasons. Think about that. The rotation of a celestial body in the infinite universe versus the very lives we currently are living, right now...and we have as much influence to both, to an extent. Is that overwhelming? It shouldn't be. It's edifying. Grounding. It means that the change in life should be held in the same regard as the falling leaves, the dying flowers, the barren landscapes: we can't blame ourselves for the tragic yet predestined events that affect the things we love. Instead, look not to impart blame. Look to plant the seeds once again. Make something that is beautiful. Just maybe it will sprout into something even more beautiful than before.

I can only hope.