the art of falling.

​Fall. The British call it autumn, but no word could be more apt than fall. What better describes the satisfying plop of apples as they drop from the trees? Or later, the downward stream of russet cider as it pours from the press? Fall is the steady march of the harvest down into the cellar: pot-bellied pumpkins and jeweled jars of jam to line the shelves; tomatoes and string beans to stuff the freezer. We deconstruct the garden, dig up and take apart what we have spent the summer planting and nurturing. The thermometer nudges its nose down the scale.
 
And this too: the sense of getting older. A slackening in the body, but also the gravity of finding meaning in the simplest of moments. Time drips with a slower fullness. We learn to pause and see ourselves as though observing from the outside. Here I am, crouched among the red and golden beets to dislodge them from their earthy beds. Here I am, stooped over beehives lifting heavy frames of fluid amber.
 
Embedded in the fall is always the bud of a new season—we prune back the raspberry canes and the black currant bushes with the promise of abundant fruit next summer. We gather and sort seeds to make ready for the next burst of life. We discover a monarch chrysalis tucked amidst the dying zucchini stalks—jade green dotted with impossible gold—and we guard it like a secret as we move about the decaying plants.
 
And another swelling joy: we are expecting our first child in March and we marvel at our newly heavy bodies (we, because Roland has been happily engaged in sympathy eating). A free fall, a leap of faith, as we arrive at the precipice of an unknown landscape.
 
In our professional lives too we are on the cusp of something that feels enormous and a tiny bit terrifying…but that’s perhaps a topic for another newsletter.
 
One sunny September day we climb Rock Dunder, a 275 ft. cliff overlooking the Rideau Waterway. We stand at the summit gazing out over the shadowy forests flecked with the first signs of the changing leaves, grateful and amazed to find ourselves at the end and the beginning of so much.
 
We remember that old story: 
 
“Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, we're afraid!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, we will fall!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.”
 
(Guillaume Apollinaire)