September looks like the first batch of autumn leaves – rolling, tumbling, crashing over each other in the end-of-summer breeze. It looks like galvanized buckets full of bright fall bouquets at Trader Joe’s, freshly chopped firewood ready for cozy wood stove fires, and stacks of wedding thank you cards waiting to be written. (The world fails to mention that writing thank you cards takes longer than planning the actual wedding…)
September feels like the changing of the seasons, nature’s sacred ritual that breathes a sigh of relief over all creation – the same kind of relief you get sitting across the table from a good friend with a cup of tea, or reading a book by an author who puts to words everything you’ve been feeling but can’t quite articulate yourself: “Oh, yes. Me too.” September feels like new boots – because one must always get a new pair of boots in anticipation of fall (…even if they look just like the last pair – right, Husband?). It also feels like greasy hair and dirty feet, because contrary to popular belief, summer still has a few days left before pumpkin-spice-everything takes over, and thus it deserved one final victory lap in the form of a camping trip sans showers this past weekend.
September sounds like the calm after the summer storm: deliciously quiet and surprisingly still. It sounds like recently discovered podcasts, my favorite coffeehouse playlist on repeat, and my alarm going off a little bit earlier than normal in an attempt to establish better morning habits. It sounds like the pitter-patter of the first rain of the season singing in perfect harmony with the crackling of the first fire of the season.
September smells like greasy fair food, wet dog, and the spicy-sweet scent of my favorite chai. It smells like a new bottle of pomegranate hand soap by the kitchen sink, and my beloved coconut, driftwood, & amber candle that’s nearly burned out after many hours of faithful service. It smells like my sacred morning coffee making routine: the grinding, the boiling, the steeping, and the pressing alike.
September tastes like homemade pumpkin doughnuts, plucked from a hot bath of sizzling oil and plunged straight into their cinnamon-sugar fate. It tastes like summer’s last few peaches sprinkled with sugar and covered in cream, warm homemade soft pretzels straight out of the oven, and Thai food with old friends. August tasted like Whole30: self-control, gorging on vegetables, and reestablishing healthy emotional boundaries when it comes to what I put in my body. But September, September tastes like celebration: the celebration of a long summer season drawing to a close – the kind of celebration that deserves an entire stick of butter, am I right?
“After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.”
“Anne of Avonlea”