The Magic of September

The 'Ber months are upon us. I'm always amazed, but perhaps more so this year even than in years gone by, at how September brings such a shift. It truly feels different. There is a sense of settling, a rustling quieting, especially along the coast and at the water's edge.

The days are growing noticeably shorter and the waters feel emptier. Although autumn is still 15 days away (and I do not wish for it to rush, as much as I love it so), there is a sense of the earth folding into itself. Even the sun feels older, calmer, now more golden than white.

I love this time, this liminal space between summer and autumn, but I always feel a twinge of melancholy too. Soon, the waters will no longer be for swimming or floating. The beaches will return to nature, only the most die-hard of sunbathers to be found on them, trying to soak up what's left of the briefness of summer warmth at midday.

Despite that twinge of melancholy, I do love the beach in these waning days of summer, and in the first light of autumn. They're already largely empty now, a perfect time to sit and listen to the sand, the surf, the elemental languages softly speaking all around us. There is no din of families and children screaming at play in the surf, no crush of humanity taking up every available inch of sand, noisy even when saying nothing. Shells and other treasures are left un-gathered, and the water itself is turning from the blues and greens of summer to a silvery, sparkling, grey and midnight. If you listen closely enough, you can also hear the sounds of clams and oysters settling in deeply to ride out the storms and cold of our northeastern autumnal and winter seas. Even the gulls begin to quiet down now, squabbling less and intent, instead, on fishing now that the ready food of holiday and beach-goers has gone.

The forest that goes right up to the water's edge here feels sleepy, too. Late summer and autumn blooms have seen the pinks, purples, and blues of spring and high summer give way to deep red rosehips, the last of the Queen Anne's Lace, yellow hawkweed and goldenrod, autumn marigolds, and deep maroon sumac cones.

This, all of this, is truly the magic of September, that liminal month between summer and autumn, not quite sure what it is until the autumn equinox finally lets it know. It is in watching the coastal forests begin to change from the bosky green of a settled August into the fiery yellows, reds, and oranges that mark the celebrations of autumn. It's in tuning in deeply to the shoreline once more, and it's in saying good bye to the water itself. Sitting at the edge is never quite the same as immersing yourself in its summery seas.

Perhaps, mostly poignantly, the magic of September is to be found in knowing that winter will soon be upon us, but being happy just to sit in contentment in summer's golden hour.