When August sees its final days, many succumb to autumn’s gravitational pull.
I once attempted to dissect why.
I’m going to dig deep, I told my friends, half serious, half amused. I’m going to write an article, with a psychology angle, as to why people go crazy for autumn. I mean, what is it?
And what did I come up with?
Maybe we love the fickle nature of the season. Maybe we can change alongside the colors and the temperatures. Maybe we can embody an essence that dares us to not only grow, but to be a bit…all over the place.
I could be biased because I’m a November baby, but November to me is the real autumn.
November trees are shedding layers, creating identity, standing firmly in a world of beauty. Complexity.
November nights exude winds; some light, some heavy. To refresh, to force awakening.
November leaves are saturated. A collage of cranberry reds and deep browns. Some atop the foliage in idealistic fashion. Some on the ground, rooted in reality.
November is encoded in my DNA.
November is my bones.
November is me.