"[Frodo] found himself wondering at times, especially in the Autumn, about the wild lands, and strange visions of mountains that he had never seen came into his dreams. He began to say to himself 'Perhaps I shall cross the river myself one day.' To which the other half of his mind always replied 'Not yet.'"
Especially in the Autumn.
Something thrills in me every year when the air thins, the sun pales and the wind begins to channel cool and purposeful, driving summer away again. The leaves begin to bleed and fall, the mornings grow breath-stealingly cold, and freshness—crispness—settles in one last stubborn, beautiful, bated breath before the long dead hush of Winter.
The year throws every last remnant of vitality into this season, I think, in one last golden hoorah before the burying snow.
It has me restless. Every year. Without fail. I find myself standing in the wind that always blows down from the Northern mountains, looking somewhere North and West and wondering what the pulling promise is that lies over those hills (though I've been over them dozens of times). "I want to see mountains again. Mountains, Gandalf!"
That, more or less, is what I feel rise in my chest as the world whistles from summer to Autumn.
But not until this year did I understand why.
It's the wildness of it. Especially during that volatile week or two of transition between the seasons—that limbo time where neither season has the hold but both are fighting for it.
March may come in like a lion; but soggy spring has nothing on the winds of Autumn. They are completely free, uninhibited...wild. Wild like some primordial part of me, deep down and long subdued, wants to be. Wild. Free but with purpose. The purpose of transition. Change. Something new and fresh and exciting, colorful and full of life and energy. And self-contained power.
That's what the winds of Autumn signify. And every year they breathe through me, restless, full of pent-up energy. Stirring latent ambition, encouraging untapped potential. A story not yet written, begging to be discovered. No, not just discovered. Lived. Now. Before the season dies and it's too late.
I watch the horizon from the direction the winds come, somewhere North and West, where inevitably, some day, something new and exciting will descend from the mountains and find me.
Or to where I, someday, like Frodo and Bilbo, will travel and find the answer myself.