I recently found myself lost in thought, pondering things I hope my sons recall from their youth. It may not be the delicious dinners I slaved over and presented to them after a long hard day each evening because, let’s be honest, I am not the best cook. It likely will not be that I meticulously washed and ironed their clothing because they do their own laundry, and I don’t even know where the iron is. And it most assuredly will not be that I always knew the right thing to say during a season of discontent because, well, I try. There are a lot of things I don’t get quite right as a mom to a 12-year-old and a 14-year-old (going on 27).
However, if there is one thing I hope my sons nostalgically recall someday (and possibly do with their own children, my future grands), it is that their mom often deviated from the main course, the straight and shortest route, the fast lane, if you will, to experience the beauty of her favorite season autumn.
Every fall, whether on the way to church, school, a friend’s house, a Scouts meeting, a basketball game, or some other routine destination, I find myself distracted by the vibrant colors of the season’s glorious beauty. I will always choose the back road, the cemetery detour, the country lane, or the long way around just to get a glimpse of the color that so captivates and enlivens my soul.
The knowledge that this enlightening height of beauty peaks just before the depth of loss that comes with the proceeding months of winter has taken several seasons to fully resonate with my heart. It is a natural song my soul seems to play on repeat with each new season. Growth, beauty, exhilarating pleasure, loss, repeat.
Autumn reminds me that no matter how many times one achieves the pinnacle of joy in this life, the fall often comes just after the blinding height of beauty. This cycle repeats itself over and over again, throughout the seasons, years, relationships, loves, losses, and journeys of each human life. How raw, captivating, and eye-opening to receive an annual reminder that in order for new growth to come, one has to simply let go of the old. Often the most treasured pieces of our soul are the ones we must relinquish in order to learn the valuable lessons that come from letting go.
So, when my future two sons think back to their youth—the weird, macabre, and often head-shaking things their mother did—I sincerely hope they remember the light in my eyes when seeking the perfectly turned tree in which to capture a photo. I hope they laugh to themselves, thinking of the many times we were late somewhere because their mom had to take a shortcut through the cemetery (cemeteries have the best trees).
I hope they stop and pause during the height of their mother’s spirit season and realize that the beauty we behold today will no doubt fade away, but in that fading, that letting go, that tragically beautiful loss, new beginnings and not-yet-realized dreams are already percolating behind-the-scenes, making way for a fresh and vibrant tomorrow.
Mostly, I hope my sons inherit my appreciation for this time of year. The magic, the beauty, the lessons learned, and the future dreams realized. I hope they grow to choose the scenic route, the long way home, the backroads of life, and truly take measure of the present moment when the height of beauty is all they see before the wind blows away those vibrant leaves and another season takes the place of fall, in all of her deep wisdom, beauty, and magic.
by Lauren Eberspacher 
by Christina Zambrano 
