Dying year

I had just sat down to an opening paragraph of a new chapter when I noticed out of the corner of my eye something red falling just outside the window.

At this point in the year I typically love all of the familiar elements of a Minnesota autumn--the smell of drying leaves, the plethora of pumpkin spice-flavored products, and the reappearing of bright orange jack-o-lanterns on doorsteps.

I sometimes am even disappointed with a 70-degree forecast because it's too warm to wrap a billowy, woven scarf around my neck. I am inspired by the student "models" at the University of Minnesota West Bank "runway." Everywhere I see oversized sweaters hanging heavily atop a pair of twig-like legs, supported by tiny little boots. I wonder if anyone else notices the imbalance of proportions. Seems like a strong, fall wind could knock these models over like a big sack of flour.

The reality is that my summer has died, along with its memories and creations. Although it saddens me every year to see leaf upon leaf fall to the ground and the grass loses its pigment, this death brings comfort to me in several ways. I cannot say that 2016 was a great year. I do not feel proud necessarily of any remarkable traits I have strengthened, work I have completed, habits I have ceased, or relationships I have improved.

With winter coming, I can almost rejoice at the fact that whatever dissatisfaction I have with myself, I can let it die, along with the leaves, plants, grass, and flowers.

I can embrace the dying of summer--of mediocre living, of minimal participation, of self-serving activities, whatever it might be--and look forward to the newness of life that death allows. This is a time for reflecting, of preparation, of examining.

Let me not forget this motivating thought when it is ten degrees outside and all I want to do it walk outside barefoot in a sundress, wiping sweat from my brow.