One morning last week I woke to a light dusting of snow—maybe two inches. There is something odd about snow resting on yet-green grass and stubbornly clinging to bright yellow- and rust-colored leaves. Two seasons collided in my yard, and although beautiful, it just didn’t seem right. But nature, as it is, does her own thing, and she certainly doesn’t ask my permission.
When I was a child, I wanted fall to “get a move on” so that Thanksgiving, my favorite foodie holiday, and Christmas, with all the excitement of presents, would come quickly. (Yes, I knew it was about being thankful and celebrating Christ’s coming, but after all, I was just a kid!) But now I don’t want winter to come too soon.
Over the years, I have come to appreciate fall in ways I never did in my youth. The colors have always been beautiful; but now I identify with fall. The spring and summer of my life—attending school, anticipating first dates, beginning a new life with my husband, raising my three babies—are all behind me. Now, in the fall of my life, I can at last give myself permission to slow down, to enjoy my first cup of morning coffee and write in my journal while my husband quietly sits across from me focused on the morning paper. I like his quiet presence.
Now he and I have time to engage in long, thoughtful conversations—though admittedly, they can get a bit lively as we discover we don’t think exactly alike. (We never did, but he is becoming increasingly aware of that as I become more vocal about my ideas.) Still, the process is enriching.
In the fall of my life, I can choose those activities that will truly bring me happiness: enjoying my delightful grandchildren, basking in my relationships with my grown children and their mates, having time to write and spending time with my author friends and thinking about trips I may want to take or adventures I’ve not yet experienced. In other words, I get to investigate what I want on my personal “bucket list.”
I am, however, at a very tender age. I’m fully aware that at any time the Grim Reaper could kick over my bucket and spill its contents into eternity. Most of the time I remain in comfortable denial and think I have tons of time left. However, I was reminded of my vulnerability when I attended the funeral of a close friend whose fall and winter collided before she could begin to get to her bucket list.
As I look out at snow clinging to exploding, yellow leaves, I am hopeful that my winter can be staved off a bit longer, that God grants me time to enjoy fall’s metaphorical colors and that there not be an immediate fall/winter collision in my life. But heck, neither nature nor God will ask my permission.
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