Only a little of why I love Fall

Fall is coming in, but for academics it is springtime for the inquisitive mind. Leaves belie the trust of Summer, and abandon us to the cold of space. Even the sun lies. Isn’t it closer to us in Wintertime? Only the equator seems to keep faith, and it, too, is but an imaginary line.

Perhaps it is the turn inward. All philosophy begins with the question of being (das Sein), says the German philosopher Martin Heidegger, a question raised by the realization of our own way of being in it (Dasein). All frontiers are beyond the reach of every person save the space inside themselves, and the question of other people. Fall is a coming inward.

Fall, to, is possibility. Who would have thought in the heady, monochromatic heat of deep-green Summer that so many colors could occur? Who would have expected that common Maple on the way to the library to divide itself in twain between yellow and rusty red? Who was it that made the choice? Which leaf or branch served as Major General and sorted out the ranks? We step among the bravery of paratroopers and take no notice. Each tree and leaf is like a Christmas package wrapped from the inside out. That birch tree has not turned. And there that elm remembers youth in shades of yellow-green. Does my neighbor, too, have hidden colors?

Fall is time. The weather turns too horrible to trump one out of doors. Better to have independence and only go out at will, bundled up against the cold. A well lit table and some wine will do for hours of heady exploration. The mind, says Calvin, is always better at its own temptation. Friends cease cavorting about the lawn and step in to conversation. Even the heavens seem to smile. Early evenings allow the curious to contemplate the stars at leisure without sparing sleep. Our breath rises cloudy and cups the cold moon. It reminds us of mortality and we wrestle with it, or make our peace. Here is a humble gait more proper to the state of man, and we have time to think it over.

Fall is culture. The liberal arts are too lazy in the summer to produce or perform for the rest of us. In Massachusetts, the BSO runs off to the hills of the West. And we conspire in their escape! We dawdle on the sandy beaches and forget Debussy, Bach and Mahler. All for shame. We lick our chocolate ice cream melting crowded at kaleidoscopic summer carnivals and neglect Isben, James and Shakespeare. All for shame. If expectations could keep from falling limp in the humidity, we might have had a show! But Fall to the rescue scoops them into her coat and delivers them up to us. Stir us back to life again! Awaken us, you artists! Enough warm afternoon naps in folding chairs; unpack our souls!