****This is one of my old posts that I am leaving up. It has earned its place on the Interwebs Simple pleasures mean the most to me. Driving down a country highway just as the leaves and air are turning. Breathing in the smell of wood fires. Cuddling in my room in my favorite yellow sweater with the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack playing. Hayrides and dressing-up frolicks. Thick, rich literature dripping with beautiful imagery and heartfelt dialogue, the pages worn and full of that old book smell…
I love
fall. I love it like an old friend, for
that is what it is to me. It comes after
a long and hot summer, just as I am beginning to fear nothing will ever be the
same, there it is. It feels like a hug
from behind, a kiss on the cheek, a song that floats to you on the wind that
makes you suddenly sink back into the world and begin to see everything in a
sunnier, more romantic, more meaningful light, and you’re not sure whether to
smile or cry, so you do both.
There is a
sense of stability about autumn, and yet every year brings new adventures, new
lessons, creates new memories. It is
predictable in its unpredictability.
I can sing in
the fall. I can be quiet. I don’t usually talk much unless it’s to be
reflective. I might write. I might draw.
I will surely dance, but not for anyone else. The things I do in autumn are purely to revive
myself, to reawaken that bit of magic that July and August have worn away.
Magic to me
will always smell like a pile of leaves.
Wonder will be the birds flying south.
Joy will be the taste of a crunchy apple that’s just red enough not to
be considered yellow. And love…love will
be skipping down the path hand in hand with my best friend.
Because
simple pleasures mean the most to me.
Until next time,
Rosie Jane
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