The ability to take in a pink, purple and orange sunset in New York City the other night filled my pupils with goodness and my soul with the fire of fall.
There is nothing quite like pulling up your sweater a bit closer to your chin and squinting your eyes to gaze in on God’s color palette while a fall wind blows and leaves crackle beneath your boots. Or watching the sun melt into dusk and slide in shimmers of gold down the sides of skyscrapers, in between the fire escapes of inner city ghettos, and fall like droplets into the East River.
Some would say that this season has been reserved for the sole purpose of commemorating the end of a year, the temporary death of leaves and flowers and all that blooms.
I say it is when the urban oasis awakens to new possibilities.
In all its autumnal glory, it is the season that is most palpable to the psyche: red, purple, burgundy, brown, and yellow; a stark contrast to the pastel colors of spring. It’s as if a new mood of heaven has been unleashed from the sky and cast upon the landscape covering the streets and hills of October, November and December against the backdrop of a giant, orange pumpkin disappearing into the sea on the horizon.
It is true that the days will shorten and the brisk breeze I am enjoying will soon turn brash and frigid, but I like to think of the fall as blazing and illustrious and as a season worth falling for year after radiant year.