Growing up in South Texas, I didn’t get to witness the rhythm of the seasons; there, the summer is “hot” and the winter is “not so hot.” In my last few years here in Connecticut, I have grown to cherish this beloved transition from the sticky summer heat to a sleepier September and beyond. Autumn is also an expression of mortality, a seasonal echo of doors that close – such as that of my undergraduate career.
When I truly reckoned with this at the start of the semester, I had a quasi-existential crisis. The fleeting nature of autumn mirrored the fleeting nature of my time in college. By mid-September, as fall took shape and time progressed in its defiant form, I wanted to reach out and put it on pause before each tree had gone bare. I know many fellow seniors that currently feel similar; our year is moving quickly and we are no stranger to the inevitable and albeit well-intentioned small talk: “so, what are your postgrad plans?” Which, even if we do have plans, complicates the balance between “staying in the now” and our looming postgraduate lives that are currently alight on the mind’s horizon. I was being reasonably dramatic in early September; it seemed “everyone” was applying to grad school, or preparing themselves for their long-established futures. Why was I so far behind? Ironically and unsurprisingly, this all-consuming desire to pause the present moment preoccupied the more precious ones I could have spent actually staying present.
What makes fall so beautiful is its impermanence. The sentiment of death and rebirth, the process that begins anew each year though never quite the same. Now, I do what I can to stay present. I write down my moments of gratitude, and I pay attention to sacred moments each day. There are subtle gifts of seniority: the longevity of my closest friendships, the cadence of the conversations in my senior-level classes, the fleeting time pushing us closer together. And, the joy of working with interested and interesting young writers at The College Voice, embodying their infectious eagerness.
In my final fall in college, I am spending much of my time in the arboretum on dewy mornings. The days are slowly set by the sun, its light falling softly on the golden and auburn trees, leaf-by-leaf falling to kiss the earth below. The view before me, so beautiful in its bounty, forces me to treasure these sacred moments.
In terms of my postgraduate future, I know what drives me, what excites me and what inspires me. I know I want to be a lifelong learner, and with this I feel equipped. Autumn is a meaning-making process, a reminder that the world will continue to turn, and there are efforts greater and more honorable than how I might make myself capitalis- tically successful the moment upon graduation. I am end- lessly thankful for the seasons here in Connecticut, and the new spaces they provide me with so that I can grow anew.
Standing outside, where nothing feels so good as the sunlight cast on my skin, I am grounded and humbled by the change I get to witness before me. I hope to treat the passage of time as a reminder to stay present and close to what I love, and to take comfort in both the promise of regeneration and the beautiful ephemerality of seasons to come. •
