Autumn is a beautiful season. Much has been written about it. From the ancient times to the present, it has been a subject much written about.
New thoughts always pour in. One young woman wrote about how she felt about autumn because she was the child of autumn. She always had a connection with the season. We always have connection with what we like best.
Now, why do I always like autumn? It is one of my best seasons. How do I connect to it? I don’t even have the vaguest idea.
All I can say is that the sky is clear and golden leaves float down the street and they give a nice colour to the surrounding. When you really think of it, the season also gives a feeling of death around the corner, if winter is the Death.
So what reminds me of the beauty of autumn? What makes me revel in it? Perhaps, it is Wagner’s music from the Four Seasons. Or Keats Ode to Autumn. They are just romantic ramblings of a silly old romantic man.
But then I can’t help it. I am also in the autumn of my years. For some reason, I feel that this is the best time of my life. Yes, I haven’t achieved a lot of things that I wanted to, or lot of things that people keep store by. I am not worried. I have lived my life to the hilt. Winter is just a few years away (if not months).
If I had the strength, I would just like to zoom away on a powerful motor bike into the country and enjoy the warm sun, the blue sky and the green and gold countryside. I am still willing to brave the chilly evenings and mornings. When the sun rises, I would be what I had always been. I just need the warmth of the sun on my face to wake me up, unlike the farmer-soldier from the south of France who died in Wilfred Owen’s poem, Futility.
Perhaps, it is the strains from Lara’s theme from Dr Zhivago that reminds me of autumn. The Russian autumn was beautiful, at least in the movie.
Or is it the slow whisper of wind that imperceptibly moves through the wood and the soft sound that the falling leaves make on the forest floor?
But I am talking of my own autumn. I like to look into the clear blue sky and enjoy the warm sun. The harvest seems good down the valley and looks golden in the afternoon sun in contrast to the green conifer trees on the hill. The villagers are already down with their scythes to reap the harvest of the year.
They do it with love and care. For the harvest that they are reaping should see them through till the next one.
Hope is what keeps us going and keeps us looking forward to the next year.
How many such autumns I will see, I don’t know. But I would love to watch as many as possible so as I live.