I have traveled far and wide, and believe me, each state has beauty beyond compare. In my opinion, however, the Midwest comes into its own in the autumn of the year. Fields and forests display glorious and subtle shades of brown, tans, russets and creams that defy description. I wish I were an artist.
This is the time of year I want friends to come, try new recipes, listen to classical guitar or French café music, and put my garden in order, especially eggplant, squash, and all those lovely tomatoes. I wish I were a chef. This is the time of year I want moments of solitude simply to watch nature ready itself for winter. Today a gorgeous white wooly worm with a row of black dots along its back made its way under the deck steps. Next year, it will be a lovely brown moth. In the throes of such thoughts, there are new beginnings I wish to consider: projects, library programs, concerts, and festivals to attend, and so I wish I were young again with the energy to race from one event to another. This is the time of the year I remember a quote I saw years ago, cut out, and slipped under the glass top on my desk. It goes like this.
I like spring, but it is too young. I like summer, but it is too proud. So I like best of all autumn, because its leaves are a little yellow, its tone mellower, its colours richer, and it is tinged a little with sorrow and a premonition of death. Its golden richness speaks not of the innocence of spring, nor of the power of summer, but of the mellowness and kindly wisdom of approaching age. It knows the limitations of life and is content. From a knowledge of those limitations and its richness of experience emerges a symphony of colours, richer than all, its green speaking of life and strength, its orange speaking of golden content and its purple of resignation and death. –Lin Yutang
This is the time of year I want to teach again, lecture about poetry, hold creative workshops, write, and be with writers and listen to them talk about ideas. A young girl shares how she keeps her “nightmare journal,” in which she jots down the “creepy images” she hopes to use in some future book. Another talks about her play, a dramatic script about Edith Hamilton. Yet another writer talks about plots and how to proceed from conflict to resolution.
On the stove, I have split pea soup simmering, and there is laundry to do, but in my heart, I wish, I wish, oh, how I wish I could knit, paint, cook, garden, write, run a marathon, dream, talk, read, teach, study research topics, keep a neat house, prepare a dinner party, play the piano, especially “La Comparsa” by Ernesto Lecuona, something I once played long, long ago. So what to do?
With thoughts such as these, I suggest a person should create something that will integrate those wants into a story, a painting, a dance, or a piece of music and live them vicariously. Enjoy the what-ifs, maybes, colors, sights, smells, and tastes of whatever is in your head. This is imagination, and without imagination, life if colorless. Yes, this is the time of year when autumn’s crisp days and colors make the mind imagine new projects. Use your imagination Dream. Go for it.
This is the time of year I want friends to come, try new recipes, listen to classical guitar or French café music, and put my garden in order, especially eggplant, squash, and all those lovely tomatoes. I wish I were a chef. This is the time of year I want moments of solitude simply to watch nature ready itself for winter. Today a gorgeous white wooly worm with a row of black dots along its back made its way under the deck steps. Next year, it will be a lovely brown moth. In the throes of such thoughts, there are new beginnings I wish to consider: projects, library programs, concerts, and festivals to attend, and so I wish I were young again with the energy to race from one event to another. This is the time of the year I remember a quote I saw years ago, cut out, and slipped under the glass top on my desk. It goes like this.
I like spring, but it is too young. I like summer, but it is too proud. So I like best of all autumn, because its leaves are a little yellow, its tone mellower, its colours richer, and it is tinged a little with sorrow and a premonition of death. Its golden richness speaks not of the innocence of spring, nor of the power of summer, but of the mellowness and kindly wisdom of approaching age. It knows the limitations of life and is content. From a knowledge of those limitations and its richness of experience emerges a symphony of colours, richer than all, its green speaking of life and strength, its orange speaking of golden content and its purple of resignation and death. –Lin Yutang
This is the time of year I want to teach again, lecture about poetry, hold creative workshops, write, and be with writers and listen to them talk about ideas. A young girl shares how she keeps her “nightmare journal,” in which she jots down the “creepy images” she hopes to use in some future book. Another talks about her play, a dramatic script about Edith Hamilton. Yet another writer talks about plots and how to proceed from conflict to resolution.
On the stove, I have split pea soup simmering, and there is laundry to do, but in my heart, I wish, I wish, oh, how I wish I could knit, paint, cook, garden, write, run a marathon, dream, talk, read, teach, study research topics, keep a neat house, prepare a dinner party, play the piano, especially “La Comparsa” by Ernesto Lecuona, something I once played long, long ago. So what to do?
With thoughts such as these, I suggest a person should create something that will integrate those wants into a story, a painting, a dance, or a piece of music and live them vicariously. Enjoy the what-ifs, maybes, colors, sights, smells, and tastes of whatever is in your head. This is imagination, and without imagination, life if colorless. Yes, this is the time of year when autumn’s crisp days and colors make the mind imagine new projects. Use your imagination Dream. Go for it.
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