I don't think I've seen autumn like this in a very long time.
Not really.
I have seen leaves change.
I've watched temperatures fall. I've pulled jackets out of closets. I've complained about the first cold morning and appreciated the first evening when the air finally stopped feeling like bathwater.
But around here, fall usually doesn't linger.
We seem to get about two good days of it.
The temperature drops.
The cold settles in.
The leaves give up.
And suddenly the show is over before we really had a chance to watch it.
Not this year.
This year, nature is taking its time.
And putting on one hell of a show while it does.
Maybe that's why this autumn feels different.
Or maybe I'm finally standing still long enough to see it.
The front yard has been putting on a show.
Bright reds tucked between the pines.
Yellows that seem almost too bright against a gray November sky.
Orange leaves catching what little light makes it through the clouds.
A few days ago, there were trees rising above the bushes in brilliant autumn red.
Today, that red is fading.
Yellow has moved in.
Orange is taking over.
And soon enough, those branches will be bare.
It happens that quickly.
And through all of it, the pines remain.
Dark green.
Tall and brooding.
Almost unmoved by the spectacle happening around them.
Against them, the autumn colors seem even brighter. Reds burn a little deeper. Yellows almost glow. Orange flashes between the branches.
Above it all, the November sky hangs heavy and gray, clouds pressing low enough that every bit of color below seems to push back against them.
The pines don't join the show.
They frame it.
Steady. Evergreen. Stoic.
A reminder that not everything has to change for change to be beautiful.
Maybe we need those too.
The air has changed too.
Cool breezes move through the trees.
Rain hangs around just enough to darken the bark and deepen every color around it.
There is that particular kind of North Carolina humidity that can't quite decide whether it wants to be comfortable or mildly oppressive.
Some of the pine trees are beginning to yellow too, preparing themselves for what I assume will be another glorious spring in which every horizontal surface we own becomes coated in pollen.
But that's a problem for Future Michael.
Right now, it is beautiful.
Things have been quieter lately.
Not quiet.
Let's not get ridiculous.
There are still four kids in this house.
But the frantic pace has eased.
Baseball is over.
School has settled into its rhythm.
I'm down to one class, and the first grades finally came back.
A's.
I'll take them.
The kids are finding their rhythms too.
Jacob is getting better with his spelling. He isn't where he needs to be yet, but he's a hell of a lot closer than where he started.
David is doing really well in school.
Zoey is getting better at managing her time.
Asher keeps moving forward with his work.
None of it happened overnight.
It changed a little at a time.
Almost quietly.
Kind of like those trees.
I've been changing CranioDad too.
I've spent a frankly unreasonable amount of time working on the site over the last week.
Colors have changed.
Pages have moved.
Things that made sense years ago don't necessarily make sense anymore.
And somewhere in the middle of all that tinkering, I realized I wasn't really redesigning a website.
I was making room for the person I've become.
I've taken CranioDad in a lot of different directions over the years.
Some fit for a long time.
Some probably lasted longer than they should have.
Gaming became a huge part of what I was doing, and it will be again.
But underneath all of it, I was always telling stories.
And lately, I've wanted the site to feel like those stories again.
Warm.
Lived in.
A little weathered around the edges.
Maybe a little older.
Not finished.
Just changed.
There is a temptation to think of change as something dramatic.
Before.
After.
Old.
New.
A line we cross and suddenly everything on the other side is different.
But I'm not sure that's how most of it happens.
A tree that was red on Tuesday is orange by Friday.
A kid who struggled with something gets one more word right.
Then another.
A teenager gets a little better at managing her own time.
A semester becomes one class.
A baseball season disappears from the calendar.
A website starts looking a little more like the person writing it.
And unless you're paying attention, you can miss all of it.
Maybe that's what I've loved most about these last couple of weeks.
There has finally been enough space to look up.
To walk outside.
To sit on the porch.
To notice the trees.
To feel the cool air.
To listen to the rain.
To watch the colors change from one day to the next.
Not through a phone.
Not between conference calls.
Not while rushing toward wherever we need to be next.
Just standing there.
Watching the world change.
Because it is changing whether we're watching or not.
The leaves will fall.
Winter will come.
Baseball will eventually start again.
The kids will keep growing.
I'll finish this class and start whatever comes next.
CranioDad will keep becoming whatever CranioDad is supposed to become.
And eventually the pines will unleash enough yellow pollen to make me deeply regret every nice thing I just said about them.
But not today.
Today, the yard is red and yellow and orange.
The air is cool.
The rain is falling.
And for once, I'm standing still long enough to notice.
Maybe the beautiful thing about change isn't what comes next. Maybe it's the brief moment when you can see what was and what will be at the same time. The red hasn't completely disappeared. The yellow has already arrived. The leaves haven't fallen yet. Nothing is finished, but nothing is standing still either. Neither are we. Every once in a while, life slows down just enough for us to notice. When it does, look up.
Much love.
Stay safe.
Wash your damn hands.
And I will see you, next time.
