“At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost” (Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Cezanne).
I get seriously annoyed with people who actually enjoy summer days when it’s over 90 degrees and the humidity is like walking into a sauna. With cooler weather, you can always add more layers. With hot, you can only take off so much before it becomes illegal (not to mention immoral).
According to my timeline, fall starts in 9 days, but the current weather has felt very autumn-esque. The last two days have been drizzly, grey, and a tad on the colder side. That kind of weather activates cravings in me for all things pumpkin spice, caramel apple cider, bonfires, hayrides and (best of all) flannel.
I look forward to the day when I can realistically wear flannel and not sweat to death. I believe there will be flannel in heaven– maybe those robes we wear will have flannel lining. Flannel is like a hug that you get to wear all day long.
Anyway, this being Tennessee, I’m almost certain there will be some kind of resurgence in hotter weather, with the politically incorrect name for that being Indian Summer. Then hopefully, fall will come back for real and stay a while and bring some color to the leaves.
“Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love – that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one’s very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns” (Letter to Miss Eliot, Oct. 1, 1841, George Eliot).