At this point in November pretty much all the leaves have fallen here in the Pacific Northwest, except, of course, for the evergreens.
I am not sure why most people I ask say that autumn is their favorite season. There is a certain nostalgia that comes with early evenings and getting cozy in front of the fireplace, but there must be something deeper, perhaps primitive happening.
It may have something to do with our mortality. I’m not sure if it’s archetypal in some Jungian sense, but long hours of darkness that stretch late into the morning evoke an air of mystery. The passages in Jack London’s Call of the Wild capture eloquently the plight and longing of all living things.
Nature does not allow an ending. Even as the wolves howl the pain of their existence, new life awaits beneath the winter snow. This truth from nature reflects an eternal one for us. In death is the seed of life. Yes, spring’s renewal and summer’s growth comes to completion in the harvest. We, too, have eternal life planted deep within us.
So at the end of the year, we await something new. The Latin word for this is adventus.
The first Sunday of Advent is days away. An arrival awaits. Yes, an earthly arrival with the portents of eternal joy for us all.
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