I Think October May Be the Most Honest Month

I think October may be the most honest month of the year.

Spring is full of promises.

Summer behaves as though it might go on forever.

December distracts us with lights and celebrations and lists of things to do.

But October?

October tells the truth.

Things change. Things end. And they can still be beautiful.

Here in Indiana, I can already see it happening.

The mornings are cooler now, which means I’ve returned to something I love—walking without feeling as though the sun is personally trying to kill me.

The light is different.

The air feels different.

And outside my office window, my roses are putting on one last show.

I’ve always thought Indiana roses are particularly beautiful in the fall.

They seem to rally just before the cold arrives, producing blooms that somehow look richer and more determined than the ones that came earlier in the season.

Maybe I’m imagining that.

But I don’t think so.

They seem to know something.

October Doesn’t Pretend

There is no hiding what is happening in October.

The leaves change color because their season is ending.

The gardens begin shutting down.

The daylight retreats a little more each evening.

Birds leave.

Trees let go.

There is something almost startling about how beautiful nature makes this process.

We travel to see it.

We take photographs of it.

We plan drives through the countryside specifically to watch millions of leaves preparing to fall off millions of trees.

Think about how strange that is.

We’re admiring an ending.

Not merely accepting it.

Admiring it.

Perhaps that’s one reason October feels different to me as I’ve gotten older.

At 73, endings don’t feel theoretical anymore.

Neither does time.

When you’re 25, a year seems like a fairly substantial piece of real estate.

At 73, January occasionally seems to be followed immediately by someone asking what you’re doing for Christmas.

I’m exaggerating.

A little.

But time does change as we get older—or at least our perception of it does.

And I find myself paying more attention to things precisely because I know they don’t last.

We Spend a Lot of Our Lives Fighting Change

Human beings have an interesting relationship with change.

We say we want it when we’re unhappy.

Then we resist it when it arrives.

We want our children to grow up, but we’re startled when they do.

We want careers to progress, but then one day the career ends.

We want grandchildren, and then somehow those grandchildren become adults while we’re still trying to understand what happened to the little kid who was just here five minutes ago.

Homes change.

Families change.

Friendships change.

Bodies certainly change, despite the considerable efforts of the cosmetic industry to convince us otherwise.

Even the person we see in the mirror changes.

Sometimes slowly.

Sometimes all at once.

And much of our instinct is to hold on.

October doesn’t.

October lets go with extraordinary style.

There Is a Difference Between Sadness and Regret

I think we’re sometimes afraid to acknowledge that something is ending because we assume that makes the ending tragic.

It doesn’t.

There are things in my life that I miss deeply.

People.

Places.

Versions of myself.

Times when my family looked different than it does today.

Experiences I know I will never have in quite the same way again.

I can miss them without wishing I were still living there.

That’s an important distinction.

You can be grateful for what was without wanting it back.

You can feel sadness about an ending without believing the ending was wrong.

You can love a chapter and still turn the page.

Maybe October understands that better than we do.

Beauty Is Sometimes Beautiful Because It Doesn’t Last

We often behave as though permanence would make something more valuable.

I’m not sure that’s true.

Would we stop to admire autumn leaves if they looked that way all year?

Would spring feel miraculous if the daffodils never disappeared?

Would we pay such close attention to a sunset if it lasted six hours?

Part of what makes something precious is knowing that this particular moment will not come again.

Not exactly.

This October afternoon.

This arrangement of people around your table.

This dog asleep beside you.

This rose outside your window.

This version of yourself.

Temporary doesn’t mean unimportant.

Sometimes temporary is precisely what makes something matter.

And Then There Are the Trees

Trees have this whole thing figured out.

They don’t negotiate with November.

They don’t clutch their leaves and insist, “But I’ve had these since April!”

They don’t regard letting go as failure.

They release what has finished its purpose.

Then they stand there all winter looking, frankly, a little rough.

No leaves.

No blossoms.

No visible evidence that anything particularly interesting is happening.

And yet the tree isn’t finished.

It’s resting.

Preparing.

Waiting.

There is more happening beneath the surface than we can see.

I like that.

Because human life has winters, too.

Periods when we’re not producing much.

Times when something has ended and the next thing hasn’t appeared yet.

Seasons when we don’t know what comes next.

We tend to get nervous in those spaces.

We want the next answer.

The next plan.

The next bloom.

Nature seems considerably less anxious about it.

So I’m Paying Attention This October

I’m going to notice the roses while they’re still here.

I’m going to enjoy these cooler morning walks.

I’m going to watch the trees change.

I’m going to pay attention when the late-afternoon sunlight turns everything that peculiar October gold.

And I’m going to try not to wish any of it forward.

There will be plenty of time for November when November gets here.

That’s something else age has taught me.

I spent too many years anticipating the next thing.

The weekend.

The vacation.

The promotion.

The project being finished.

The kids reaching the next stage.

The next season.

The next year.

Always something just ahead.

But eventually you understand that this was the thing.

The ordinary Tuesday.

The walk.

The roses.

The conversation.

The dinner.

The person sitting across from you.

The life that was happening while you were waiting for something else to happen.

October reminds me of that.

Not dramatically.

It doesn’t need to.

It simply changes the light, cools the air, colors the trees and quietly demonstrates one of life’s most difficult truths:

Nothing stays exactly as it is.

Not the wonderful things.

Not the terrible things.

Not us.

And perhaps our job isn’t to make everything last.

Perhaps our job is to notice it while it’s here.

So if you get a chance this week, go outside.

Look around.

Find something that won’t look exactly the same a month from now.

And really see it.

October isn’t asking us to be sad because things change.

I think it’s reminding us to pay attention because they do.

Things change. Things end. And they can still be beautiful.

Thank you, as always, for spending some of your time with me here at Julie’s Journal. I’m grateful for every person who reads these little pieces of my life and thoughts each week.

If today’s journal made you think of someone—or simply made you notice October a little differently—I’d be grateful if you’d share it.

And if someone shared Julie’s Journal with you and you’d like to receive future editions, I’d be delighted to welcome you as a subscriber.

Enjoy this beautiful month.

Don’t rush it.

Julie Bolejack, MBA

The Mindful Activist