A story of the eclipses of fall, the rise and fall of the season and the way a sweet autumn day can make you feel like something at all. 

This fall, I would walk and talk to myself, and I would run and think to myself, mostly about gazing. The outward gaze, the inward gaze. Gazing upon the soft red leaves on the ground, what they see as I walk past them. The gaze of the wind. Can the wind gaze upon us if it’s not an object itself? Then I would think of the sun and the soft sunshine that sits on our skin in the fall.

Every fall is brought upon us differently. Sometimes it’s kind, like soft hair. It falls gently, and we welcome its presence with extraordinary gratitude. That’s how it’s felt this fall. It’s been so subtle, so sneaky. It came upon us with a whisper, and now we have to brush through it without complaining. But complaining is all I want to do. 

And then there are the violent falls. They fall rough and wet. They soak through our jeans, and they make our eyes water. They keep us inside on outside nights. They freeze our feet in the morning. They confuse us. They force us to buy slippers when we don’t really want to. These months are a true prelude to winter, and for that reason, all I want to do is complain. 

There is something about fall that makes even a perfect day feel fleeting. Unlike any other season, its impermanence is inevitable. Summer could last forever. Summers are too hot; they feel never-ending. Summers sometimes stretch out into the fall. The space between summer and winter is where fall lies, and because of that, fall feels, no matter how beautiful, extraordinarily temporary. The coveted fall is always fading, and again, all I want to do is complain. 

Yet, as fall collapses into itself, as fall becomes finally real, I am able to feel through its impermanence. This fall, I recognize as the last. This is my last beautiful fall at Fordham University. And Fordham, like no other, frames fall with more beauty than I could ask for. Everything matches, everyone walks and cherishes the tender fall. I listen to John Fahey and I think of leaves cascading down onto the green grass. I think of how much I’ve changed at Fordham and about how vividly the seasons shape my life in the Bronx. 

I think college grants a particular perspective that allows experiences to be categorized by seasons, and that is why I am so drawn toward writing about this fall. To me, each autumn falls apart in front of our eyes. Oftentimes, it falls apart without us even realizing it, without us being able to experience it. Fall, to me, is the only season that really collapses, and that’s why it’s so special. In the past, there has been hope for future falls, for chances to “do” fall better, to really “live” the fall up. Now, there are no more chances, no more falls, and because of that, I must be prepared to collapse alongside it. 

And suddenly, it became clear to me how college has the same habit of falling apart that fall does. Once it starts to roll on, once it starts to feel real and good, at the same time, it begins to feel transient and suddenly, we realize we can’t “do” it again.

I guess what I want to talk about is the strange gut feeling that experiencing a season in one particular place one last time generates in a person. I don’t feel ready; I feel fleeting, and I too want to collapse.  

But to process change in relation to the seasons is harmonizing. The way the leaves fade in front of our eyes makes our personal changes beat on like the rhythm of nature, like a wavelength on the frequencies of the earth. And although feeling in tune with nature may ease the stress of this new adjustment period, I still feel lucky to have one last year here. 

However, I can’t avoid deep feelings of sadness and melancholy for the times when fall at Fordham wasn’t a “last,” but when it was only a season.