Carly 11.10.19 Flurry
In the fall, the rush of wind lifts my hair to my face, bringing with it a slightly musty scent and a swirl of golden brown. Everywhere, leaves crackle. Outside in just my sweater, the tiniest chill reaches me, but I wouldn’t think of shutting it out with a coat.
That’s true in the spring as well. As soon as the trees hint at buds, jackets begin their hibernation in the closet and dresses come out, inviting the still cool air to lick my bare legs. It’s hard to resist the pull of awakening; I think everyone must feel it in the springtime.
The transition to summer is my least favorite, though that’s hardly to say it’s unpleasant. The long days and laziness the humidity carries will always transport me to the carefree feeling of summer break that I felt in the grade school days. I lived for those days, that freedom.
I love to transition into each season more than I love the season itself. Transformation is my soul’s idea of a party, and the buds, the heat, and the blustering leaves are the invitation. And every year when the leaves turn I feel a little guilty for saying fall is my favorite season.
Two or three months later, they will arrive: the flurries. When they do, I know I’ll be swept away, into a daydream where everything is right, all is quiet. Winter slumber: restful, internal. And, for those of us who recognize it, the season of magick.
Every winter, I fall in love.
The wind twirls the first flakes through my hair. Every year, I think fall is surely the best season; winter always catches me off guard. Don’t fall for it yet, I tell myself, as the trees cling to their last brown and the air fills with flurries. I can’t help it. In my mind, I’ve already spread my arms, closed my eyes, and toppled backwards into the plumes of white.