I have to admit, I am one of those summer holdouts. I find myself eager to take one last walk along-side Indian summer shadows. I cross my fingers, hoping to hear another cicada symphony, even as September threatens to close its windows and doors against the autumnal chill. Then I feel the shift; that slight crispness of air and hardening of earth. A leaf that was hanging from the maple in my neighbor’s yard has transformed overnight. A sudden and persistent craving for apple cider comes sweeping in and I know that somehow I’ve convinced myself without even knowing.
Fall has arrived, and I am ok with it.
Every year for as long as I can recall my little hometown does what so many do at this time of year to welcome the change of season; we have a festival. Last night I set my alarm, I put the camera in the car to avoid any early a.m. lens fog, and I gave myself a personal directive. No matter what the morning might bring, I would be getting up to snap some pictures. No expectations, and no goal other than to simply enjoy whatever gifts there are to be found in a sea of humanity and kettle corn.
A pre-parade arrival to our little town square was my good karma because it afforded me the opportunity to play the role of casual observer. I often forget what an incredible joy it can be just to meander with no agenda. I chatted with old friends, exchanging pleasantries and business cards. I played catch up with classmates and former teachers, and watched as my community came alive with a buzz of activity. Black, white, young, old, every educational and socioeconomic level – all right there packed into a few square blocks. We were all waiting for the parade to begin. It was one of those mornings when you are just warm and cozy in your cardigan knit from goodwill and hometown charm, and I found myself grateful for the wonder of the moment.
I had a deliciously self-indulgent hour of snapping photos in the middle of the action. Up close and personal with the marching bands (feeling a special sort of empathy for the flute players), the dance troupes and the elected city officials (who were having more fun handing our candy than seems reasonable). Little children who had not yet lost interest in being on display waved like mad from the tops of floats decked out with the theme “Oh The Places You’ll Go”. Yep. We still do themes here in the middle. I whooped and hollered to get the attention of my students who were in the line-up, and was happy to see their faces light up when they recognized who was behind the lens. I was delighted when members of the police force who had lined the streets for crowd control purposes stepped out of my way so I could get a shot. It was, at least for an hour, charming and picture perfect.
Later that afternoon, still feeling the warmth all of that nostalgia was so kind to provide, I had a conversation with one of my recently separated friends. I had invited her to the festivities, but she declined explaining that she had chosen not to go, in part, because it was too painful without her children. Having lived at the end of the parade route for many years, it was an annual event for her family to gather on their porch to watch. It was a sudden about face for me, realizing that there was so much pain for her in the middle of all the celebration. She’s about as resilient as they come, but in that moment I felt her longing for that happy trio of little people, and the safe warm perch with a view of the parade in a very palpable way.
Isn’t it odd, how these things can live side by side in a community? If it had been a movie, it would have been a slo-mo recap with sentimental music. Maybe the lens would suddenly shift from a crowd shot to the one woman writing alone in her room, and the parade announcer’s voice would fade into a quiet string and piano tune. I know this for certain; that by its very existence, the one does not diminish the other. It is something to observe, like one observes with a lens. It is something to digest slowly over time, remembering each individual experience on its own merit. It is a both and, as my friend so often says. She is wise. Perhaps living at the end of the parade route all of those years did have its merits.
Welcome Fall, with your crunch of leaves, your festivals and your warm firesides. Welcome too, moments of solitude and reflection. Welcome hearts and souls that need some stitching. Our communities are made of all these moments.
Fall has arrived, and I’m ok with it.