It’s my firm belief that everyone has their season—that one season out of the four where your heart comes most alive. The colors of that season are your favorite—filling your wardrobe or your home or your heart. It’s the season you look forward to most, where all of the magic of the world seems to spill out and dance just for you.


Spring is that season for me. It’s the season that matches me—the hues of my hair and my eyes. It’s a season that I look forward to, the break from the cold of the winter, the new life, the rebirth.


Spring is the season that looks and smells and feels like me—the season that comes just in the nick of time and not a moment too soon.


But in the past few years I’ve begun a love affair with fall.

It’s not my season—the colors clashing with me horribly. I’m not an orange or a burnt yellow. I’m not a deep red and certainly not a brown. I don’t love Halloween, having been a certified “scardie-cat” my entire life, and I certainly don’t love going back to school.


But fall is a season I’ve fallen in love with nonetheless, loving it for the season as my own.


I love the change of fall, the relief from the summer heat that it brings. I love the transition, the physical demonstration of the transformation that always seems to fill that season of the year.


I love the newness of fall—bringing about more life change than New Years ever seems to.


I love the gifts that fall brings in its wake—the invitation into coziness, the first excuse of the year to stay inside and curl up with a book. I love the flavors, seeking pumpkin everything, most especially in my lattes.

And I love the colors.


Colorado has a beautiful fall, although tragically it’s usually short-lived. Winter sneaks in and steals fall’s thunder—always bringing about a heavy layer of snow, and always on Halloween, forcing snow pants on our carefully chosen costumes.


The leaves change, certainly, but only into a cool color of yellow, weighed down by the snow before they ever turn a bright red.


But fall in the south is an entirely different experience.


As I was driving to work this morning, I zoomed around the corners and over the hills of the country roads. I remembered my first few months in Georgia last year, and my utter amazement as I watched the gigantic trees turn from green, to yellow, to striking, tear-inspiring shades of red.


I remember the red leaf I picked right before Carl kissed me for the first time, and remember how sweet it was to fall in love surrounded by colors and a slight chill in the air.

Fall isn’t my season—doesn’t match me, doesn’t reflect the colors of my heart or my hair or my eyes. But it’s a season that I’m so grateful for, a season that I’m so looking forward to borrowing, even if just for a season.


What is your season? What are you looking forward to about fall?


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