Fall in(to) Cambridge

Cambridge is made for fall. From the university campuses to the tree-lined streets, fall in Cambridge means two months of bright blue skies and flaming leaves set off against the red bricks of school buildings and sidewalks. I first came to Cambridge fifteen years ago as a freshman in college, only to find that fall in New England was a fundamentally different concept than fall in Portland.

First, a New England fall is sunny. In Portland, on the other hand, the rain starts around October 1 and doesn't let up until sometime in May. 

Second, thanks to the clear skies, the leaves in Cambridge crunch. If you grew up outside the Pacific Northwest, I assure you - you underestimate the miracle of crunchy leaves. All through my childhood, fall just meant decomposing piles of sodden brown leaves beaten down by weeks of rain. You didn't rake leaves as much as push them into sad little piles that vaguely resembled something scatological. 

Third, because fall is a true shoulder season here - a distinct change from what came before, but not so sudden that you just want to hide indoors - there are super-special fall festivities, annual traditions keyed to the gradual shift in season. These traditions make the fall for me. After the difficulty of moving back across the country and starting a new job this summer, fall in Cambridge was like a warm and fuzzy welcome mat. Year after year, these are my favorite (free) fall traditions:

Endings

Transitions are always hard.  Jeff and I are in our very last days here, trying to wrap up and close down the life we have built together in The Hague.  Meanwhile the weather has suddenly turned sunny and warm, beautiful fall days that make one feel prematurely nostalgic, like you are still living in what is already the past.

As a goodbye present for someone dear to me, I picked up a collection of poems by my favorite poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins - a Victorian whose language was ahead of his times and whose love of nature was deeply spiritual.  Looking over the book, I am reminded that I don't read enough poetry.  This one, which has always been one of my favorites, feels particularly timely:

Hurrahing in Harvest

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise

Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour

Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier

Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?

I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,

Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;

And, eyes, hearts, what looks, what lips yet gave you a

Rapturous love's greetings of realer, of rounder replies?

And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder

Majestic--as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet!--

These things, these things were here and but the beholder 

Wanting; which two when they once meet,

The heart rears wings bold and bolder,

And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.