Of a certain age...

As I pick up pinecones in the front yard, the noisy gray squirrel in the tree across the road keeps up his continual chatter, as if bragging about his growing store of food for the coming winter. The blue jay squawking from his branch overhead seems to be trumpeting the change of seasons.

I have always looked forward to the advent of fall when I can stop watering and finally discard the bedraggled hanging baskets, so lush and colorful when I hung them last May. The begonias on the front porch, however, are putting on a late-season flush of peach-colored blooms, as if begging to be taken in the house to overwinter, rather than succumbing to the first hard freeze.

Over the past few years, a new emotion has surfaced with the arrival of the harvest season - a tinge of melancholy. As the small yellow leaves on the backyard birch release their hold and flutter to the ground and deck, I become aware of a slight sadness and regret for missed opportunities over the now-receding summer months - hikes not taken, trips not made, plans not accomplished.

The longer, lower slant of the sun's rays slowly plunges the north-facing deck into total shade that will prevail until the sun begins next spring's climb back up the sky, again washing the deck with light. I find myself wishing I could hold onto the summer brightness and warmth a little longer. Is this how I will feel at the end of my life - wanting more time? Or will I willingly drift through the veil, the way the falling leaves, with no effort, float silently to the earth, where they decay and give rise to new life?

There are signs everywhere of nature's dying, signaling the approach of winter. Dead needles from the heat-stressed ponderosas fill gutters and cover driveways. The ornamental and native grasses are drained of their summer greens, dressed now in burnished coppers and pale wheat tones. Gradually, the deciduous trees, stripped of their leafy dresses, will stand naked in the colder temperatures, harsher winds and shorter days of winter.

For years, September meant the start of the school year, first for me and then for my children, with the excitement of greeting old friends and new teachers. Each year held the anticipation of special school clothes and shoes purchased a month before but impatiently saved for that first day of school. In high school, fall meant football games, pep assemblies, and after-game dances.

For most of my adult life, autumn has been a time when it is easy to get over-scheduled, committed to too many worthwhile activities and projects, automatically saying yes instead of no, when asked.

In the autumn of my own life, I am content to savor each day as it comes - being present to the present, so as to not miss the chatter of that squirrel or the clear blue sky washed clean by recent rains. I notice the fleeting warmth of the sun on my back and catch the sudden flurry of golds and reds drifting onto the waiting earth. I marvel at the glory of the mountains with their blankets of new snow and hear the honking of geese making their way to warmer climes.

I am thankful for another summer, now gone, aware that each season seems to approach and depart more quickly.

I look forward to the quiet stillness of a morning adorned in new-fallen snow, with the earth suspended between the decay of autumn and the renewed hope of another spring, full of promise and new life.