When spring comes due, I find myself in need of the rebirth and consider a switch to that blooming camp as my favorite season. But as sure as the leaves will turn to warmer tones and fall, October 1st rolls around and silences the conflicted skeptic within. Of course, with our sub-tropic climate, it’s often November 1st before we see the true colors of fall. Let me set this scene. It’s a soft overcast day, the house is spotless with beds made, fresh vacuum lines on the carpet, kitchen sink empty and wiped dry, a lit candle with a name like “Backyard Bonfire” or “Moonlit Leaves,” it’s wooden wick alive in the background among open windows, a cup of coffee steaming as the cool air drifts over my local artisan [Susan Moore] mug, pausing for the sound of the wind as I watch leaves gather on my deck with a book in my right hand and a pen in my left. No place to be, nothing to be done around the house, just time to sit while the candle burns down. There is very little that makes me happier. I will pick out an album to be the soundtrack for a day like this, it has to be specific. Usually soft jazz. This is where my soul resides and how the magic of fall tips the scales of my preference.
As we enter into this fall season, I approach my second anniversary of becoming a father and it still feels strange to refer to myself as such. He’s a curious little fella, which warrants constant oversight while he meanders through the house grabbing anything his little hands can manage. I watch his eyes get pulled to new pieces of life’s puzzle and the oddities that we produce and acquire as human beings, and in those moments I can’t help but find myself as a spectator to his story. He’s strong willed with a proclivity to explore the outdoors with a genuine interest to learn the names of things. Books are the best way to leverage this curiosity. Our world is only as big as our ability to name things. He’s off to a great start in his first two years of life.
Over the weekend I was reading a book I had selected for my book club and I looked out at my tomato plants. In this Alabama October, they still want to produce. I prefer indeterminates that I can attend to each day. I start the seeds in late February or early March, and always feel a bit melancholy at the end of the season. Fellow gardeners will certainly understand this. The daily nurturing, the way you support them as they grow, trimming off the bad and harvesting the good with care so they can thrive. When we have done all we can for them, what remains is letting go of the season.
My son used to fall asleep on me and I would transfer him to his crib with slow, methodical movements so as to not startle him and reset the entire routine. Sometimes I would fail, which often would result in hours rather than minutes spent getting him to sleep. Some nights I would get frustrated, but I always tried to be present. He would soothe himself by rubbing my chest and I would begin to think about him as an adult when this moment would be a distant memory I would have to search for. Then I would relax and pull him a little closer with tears gathered in the corner of my eyes, overwhelmed by the love and joy.
My son now goes to sleep on his own. I take him into his room for “Night night,” to read a book before I tuck him in and kiss him goodnight. He has moved into a new season. He no longer needs me to lay beside him. He’s growing. It’s okay to miss those moments because we come to understand this is what we desire for our children. To teach them well until other gardeners come along to help in their care. I can’t teach him everything. There will be others throughout his life to help in the areas where I fall short. That is letting go. We must recognize our limitations as parents and do better to support those who take an interest in the development of our children. Those days will come and I feel comfort amongst a community of gardeners. For now, I will cherish our moments together wrapped in joy from something as simple as throwing the fallen leaves into the air.
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