Autumn: The Introverted Season
Autumn is here. I prefer autumn to “fall,” though I’m not sure why. Perhaps because as a word autumn seems more spiritual. More artistic. Even more introverted.
Naturally a word cannot be introverted. That doesn’t however, stop me or any one of you from feeling certain human qualities emanate from certain words. Words evoke different things to different people, and “autumn” to me is more introverted than “fall.”
Whatever you choose to call it, it is the introverted season. Seasons of the year cannot be introverted anymore than a word can be. Yet from this introvert’s perspective, if any of the four major sections of the year can be said to be introverted, I’d go with autumn/fall.
Summer is straight up extroversion. People outside, rushing about, meeting people, parties, barbecues, swimming pools, baseball games. Children out of school, laughing and hollering outside all day. It bursts with external activity.
Winter is isolated. Closed off. Maybe a degree of introversion there, but more of an “up yours” to anyone and everything. (Though for some of us, it grins for a moment during holiday season.) Winter is the recluse.
And spring? Well, as we all know, spring has some difficulty making up its mind about what it really wants to be. Sometimes rushing out to the dance floor only to find nobody else is out there. Summer would dance anyway, but spring just as often walks back to the snack table to wait for others.
In true autumn, one can go about one’s business in comfort, but not without regard to the weather. Not bundled and cocooned in winter clothing, we nonetheless can no longer subject as much of our flesh to the elements as we did in summer. By necessity we must all be a bit more self-contained, not allowing as much of ourselves out into the world. We can’t be quite as open anymore.
Autumn is the cooling off period. It’s the quieter, more intimate after-party following the bustling blowout of a party you just survived. The slow dance after all the rock and roll.
Time for stouter beer for those who partake, and richer, warmer foods. Things that require us to slow down and savor the experience of consuming.
Most of the thunderstorms are behind us by the time autumn rolls around, replaced by chilly breezes that sting our eyes for a moment, and make them water, without it being a wholly unpleasant experience. The slight discomfort leading at times to a certain type of contentment that cannot quite be described, only known by those open to same. A wind that also scattered fallen leaves over every surface, their “clickety-scrape” a near constant, a seasonal white-noise that keeps us from feeling alone, even when we are alone.
The world does not die, or give up in autumn. It’s recharging. Thinking. Building its potential. Withdrawing into its room for a while.
Sort like a certain temperament we all know and (mostly) love?