Relative Something

When you reach the middle of October, there is something to consider about numbered days that is at a distinctly different level than when the first inklings of autumn appear in August. The onset of brilliantly colored leaves in September would seem an obvious harbinger of doom, except for the fact that the colors are so distractingly beautiful.

But by October 15, the color is fading and the sunlight is waning and the temperature is declining, and if you have more than a quarter century of experience with October, and thus less naive youthful exuberance and enough winter awareness, the sensation of mid-October makes a unique impression.

That is, if you live in the northern hemisphere, and in a place where the temperature drops below freezing for months at a time and snow covers everything. Don’t try to tell me you get it, if you live where I could still walk around in street shoes and wear a light jacket in the dead of winter. Just because you think it is cold when the temperature actually drops to 45°F a couple of times, that doesn’t equate.

I am lucky, because I have always loved winter. It is my favorite season. And not just because it means the end of the aggravation from neighbors leaf-blowing. The joys of stepping out in expedition on a cold and snowy winter day are innumerable for me. However, in the years since realizing my 50th October, and the 50 winters that have followed the month each year, I am perceiving a change in the sensation which October brings. It is not the same as my 10th October, or my 15th. Back then, I looked ahead to candy at the end of the month. Now, I have a much greater sense of what lies ahead.

It is a good thing that, at this point in my life, I am undertaking additional effort to become more fully aware of the present moment. It just might lend the arrival of the middle of October a less ominous perception as my experience with future Octobers multiplies.