What is it about fall that starts you thinking about the passage of time. I know that there is a good reason why Frost's poem about two roads diverging in a yellow wood has been so violently overused. I suspect that there is something about harvest time and the impending freeze of winter that resonates deep in the collective unconscious of people who descend from races that made their home outside the tropics. There is something about watching the world literally go to sleep all around you that makes you aware of your own mortality. There is something primal about the urgency of the harvest that still moves us, even in a world where we can buy bananas any day of the of week.
Technology has insulated us from many of the rigors of winter. We are not facing four months of living off of beets, potatoes and salt pork, but the changing leaves still make me feel like I need to enjoy every last bit of sun and warmth. This time of year, I want to get outside every chance I get. I want to take long hikes in the woods as they prepare for their long sleep. I can imagine, at any moment, that the white blanket of snow will begin to descend and I can wish that it would hold off just a little longer.
We rake the leaves into a pile and the kids play in them.
We get out jackets, gloves and hats.
We surround ourselves with pumpkins, field corn and all the signs of the harvest.
We do these things as a last statement of life that will hold us through the freeze.
We do these things to hold on to consciousness through the winter coma.
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