October 17, 2010

public display of affection

"Why don't we turn beautiful colors when we die?" - my brother

Well, autumn has spread out her welcome mat. Literally, in our case.

I wish I could tell you I've spent my time away fully enjoying every minute of it, busy with seasonally appropriate adventures, but that's just not the case. I've just had a lull, and haven't gotten out nearly as much as I mean to, so now of course I'm grieving the quickly fading sunset that is fall.
I even love the chilly, rainy days, because they are the perfect excuse to eat and wear and do all things cozy. And really, I don't mind so much when they fall on outing days either, even on an excursion to Toronto (first time for me) for a Sufjan Stevens concert.

So, today was an attempt to soak up that rare combination of clear, cool air, thin sunshine, and confetti-littered forest floors.

My plan A fell through, but after a bit of wandering, Toby and I meandered down Mountain Brow Road (it doesn't get any more promising than that name) and picked up a segment of the Bruce Trail, which runs along the Niagara Escarpment.

It was just a slice, but just the portion I needed.

Autumn, or at least the traits of autumn that I most love, is so brief compared to the other seasons. Really, autumn is still happening long after the last maple leaves have flared out, but the excitement is pretty much over after Halloween. And because no camera lens is wide enough, or sensitive enough to light and to color, or comes with scent-capturing technology... I will just have to enjoy pinches of autumn at its most potent, wherever I can.

1 comment:

  1. Escarpment, even! I share your affection for fall - even though it comes and goes so quickly. Truthfully, our winter is probably comparable to your autumn, but nevermind.

    A favorite quote I felt obligated to share (not poking fun of your fascination with leaves, I swear!):

    "Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves."

    "Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight."

    "It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead leaves."

    - Austen, Sense and Sensibility