Fall’s Truth

Change is here. The first hints of yellow and red have begun their journey up the farthest reaching leaves, their brilliance a vivid dye among the lush green of late summer forest canopy.

I watch them with equal parts excitement and dread. Excitement because I know—like all New Englanders—that real fall is hard to come by and I had better appreciate whatever version Colorado throws at me. And dread for the approach of the inevitable gray half of the year.

Splotches spread across the leaves, a last gasp at colors in nature until spring crocuses. I think about how these brilliant tapestries represent the death of a season, a final celebration in the glow of shortening days and changing light. At least that’s what I used to think.

It turns out the colors that emerge—reds, oranges, and yellows on my favorite Vermont maples and brilliant yellow on the aspens here in Colorado—have been a part of the trees all along. When the sun sits lower in the sky and shows itself for fewer hours each day, the trees react.

Every September, trees transfer their energy stores to their roots and trunks. Saving energy means making sacrifices. The first to go are the green leaves they’ve grown using months of summer energy. Trees stop producing chlorophyll—the green pigment that transforms sunshine to energy during photosynthesis. Next, the trees form an abscission layer—a barrier between the leaf and stem—cutting off each leaf’s nutrient supply to save essential nutrients for the long, dormant winter. Then the clear blue skies of fall burn off the rest of the chlorophyll and the green retreats, revealing the brilliance of the leaf’s true color.

So in some ways, fall is about truth. Summer’s popular facade pulls back to remind us of the varied landscape of reality. And maybe that’s true for people, too.

Without the laze of heat waves and the luxury of swimming holes, it’s time to figure out who we really are and who we want to become. This year more than ever I’m here with my thoughts, wondering what I want to make of the quiet season at the end of a year that’s been anything but quiet.



On my bookshelf:
Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer