Season of Death

Sandy River photo by Ben

It's Fall, and I don't have the excitement that so many people have for the season. It makes me cranky. Sure, apples are ripe and ready to pick and every coffee shop and bakery is putting pumpkin into their stuff, but I'm still miserable. For me, Fall is the season of death. It's not just my Paganish leanings  that make me feel this (the Fall and Winter are traditionally the domain of the Horned God, lord of the hunt, a god of death) but it's all around. The beautiful green deciduous forests of Spring and Summer that I love so much turn quickly and briefly to brilliant scarlets, vermillions, and oranges. But those colors don't last and with the wind and rain of October, the leaves fall away and rot on the ground. The flowers have died back, frost has killed the tomato and squash vines. The last of my already blight-rotten tomatoes are putrefying in their buckets in the yard.

I don't suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) in the traditional sense, because I don't give a damn if the sun is there or not. What bothers me is that the birds are silent. My only comfort is the massive flock of non-migratory crows that covers the town; last year they did not leave until nearly Spring. But with the crows gone and no birdsong to ease my mind, I start to get depressed. It took me a while to figure this out, and this is  what makes me crave leaving the state in the winter. It's why Florida this past March helped me so much in my road to understanding my mental illness. I was hearing birds, I was seeing green growing things again, smelling flowers. I wasn't near deciduous forest (I love palm trees though, I have no idea why I am so fascinated with them) but there were still trees. If I could afford to be a snow bunny, I would.

This is what March 3, 2012 looked like for me