I took a walk through the East side of the Arboretum at the very end of September - a perfect cloudy, windy, early fall day, when the air is chilly but not yet crisp or cold, and there are enough leaves on the trees for a gentle, soft rustle when the breeze moves through them, not yet the sharp rattle of dying leaves heaving in the wind.
I could smell the season in the air too - not yet heavy with decay but an easy mix of the plants still verdant and fallen leaves crushed underfoot, occasionally catching a wisp of smokey wood.
Despite being seen as a dying, ending season, to me, fall has always felt like beginnings. There's distinct possibility in autumn. Maybe partly the death rattle of summer's expansive opportunities, yawning into fall.
Autumn is also - if you believe in such things - the time where the veil between our world and some other side is thinnest. It carries the weight of what we've lost but also the comfort of ongoing connection.
Whether or not there's any truth to that belief, I've always felt closest to everything I’ve lost when the leaves turn and the weather gets colder. Fall is a pensive time, inviting us to gaze within but also beyond to find what we've been searching for.

If you’re like me, you feel that the world can’t lean into autumn fast enough. My body is ready for the cooler weather and the inherent coziness of the fall months. But this year I’m trying to be less overeager for my favorite season. It’s tempting to keep our gaze trained forward, uncomfortably anxious for the next thing, the next perfect time, the next season where maybe, finally, we feel our selves can burst forth and be realized. But to push through that liminal space, eyes laser-focused on what’s ahead, is to miss the opportunity to observe transition - in ourselves and in the woods around us.
For updates on fall color throughout the Arboretum, and insight on where to see the most striking displays, be sure to follow the Fall Color Reports posted on the Arboretum’s website!
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