welcoming the fall

welcoming the fall

"I wonder how many times the world will change before we realize the world is change."

– Ethan Tapper


Today's autumnal equinox ushers us into the dark half of the year, and I know I’m not alone when I say this change feels particularly potent. Not only has the world been actively changing this year in profound and unprecedented ways, but the anticipation of big change has felt just as heavy to contend with--if not moreso. With increasingly amplified attacks on our public lands, wildlife, neighbors, and communities, we are witnessing and experiencing monumental shifts while bracing for unknown events to come. We’ve got a lot of fighting ahead of us and a lot of reflecting about which side of history we want to be on as the months and years ahead continue to shake the foundations of life as we know it. The shake up, the transition, will happen regardless—the question is how we want to rise to meet it.

As Ethan Tapper, a contemporary forester in New England, wrote: the world is change. Everything is constantly in flux, ebbing and flowing with seasons and cycles and civilizations. So standing here at this precipice in a place and time where we have unlimited information at our disposal and a whole backlog of lessons from history to advise us, what change do we want to see? What change do we want to create? What change do we want to be?


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Paying closer attention to the smallest details of this seasonal transition almost gives me the power to slow down this often swiftly-passing period of time, to hold onto this fragile space between summer and autumn for just a little longer. Weeks ago, on a nearly 90 degree afternoon that still very much felt like summer, I saw the first small flare of crimson spark on the vine maples, one of the earliest plants to go through senescence, the process of changing color at the end of their life cycle. As the days get shorter and temperatures drop, the green chlorophyll in the leaves is triggered to break down, revealing the familiar red and gold autumnal hues.

Each week I’ve watched summer’s verdant cloak slip a little further off its shoulders, teaching us the bittersweet beauty of aging. The rains arrive gently as warm morning mist. Canada Geese honk their goodbyes as they migrate south for the winter. The first tiny mushrooms unfurl from between the scales of discarded seed cones, Leaves slowly curl their fists around the last warm days of summer, wringing out the dwindling drops of life before relinquishing themselves back to the soil.

Watching the world decay while allowing myself to unravel a little along with it reminds me why the humble act of being present is to vital for moving through these big transitions. I can not control everything, so I watch, I listen, I learn. I surrender to the ebb and flow, knowing I can not stop the fall from happening but I can facilitate ease. I can prepare my home, body, and garden for the lean times. I can educate myself and others so we are more empowered to act from an informed place of knowing rather than from fear. I can notice, I can observe, appreciate, admire, adore, all while being painfully aware of the loss and destruction that has and will transpire.

Still I hope for the best, not in a sentimental or naive way, but in the way that says "my power lies in choosing to be an active participant in creating positive change."

Right now I’m leaning into exploring wetlands, my favorite habitat. Nowhere else does change happen so quickly or so expectedly. Wetlands are such ethereal and liminal spaces, toeing the line between land and sea, earth and sky. They host the most biodiversity of almost any habitat on earth, and the tension between that diversity and the inherent decay of this ever-cycling realm is fascinating to me on many levels. Wetlands are one of the most rapidly disappearing habitats because they are so underappreciated, seen as nothing more than expendable swamps. The truth however, as it so often comes to play, is that wetlands are vital for the overall health of water and soil across the globe. The further we shove wetlands into the cracks of our ever-developed civilization, the less resilient we are as a result.

First up is one of my favorite little guys, the Green Heron. You can see them creeping around the edges of wetland waters, stalking frogs, fish, and insects like dragonflies for their next meal. They are often hidden and solitary but will sometimes congregate in groups of a dozen or more during breeding season.

Lately I’ve also transitioned toward a much-needed diversion into creative play. I often return to printmaking as a stress-free hobby, and particularly love cyanotype for the way it allows me to co-create directly with the land, the plants, the birds, and the elements themselves.

For those who may not know, cyanotype is an old photographic process that uses light-sensitive chemicals and the sun to “burn” images onto a surface. I paint the chemicals on watercolor paper, place various plants, feathers, etc. I find while hiking on the page, cover it with glass, and let the sun work its magic for a minute or two. The objects block the light, leaving ethereal impressions on the page. Fleeting memories made of sunlight and time.

This was one I made in my partner’s semi-rural yard while slowly wandering around with Charlie. We found part of a snake skin shed, clumps of lichen, a feather, and sword ferns. The snake skin printed surprisingly well, and I like how this arrangement evokes a vintage curio collection vibe.