Here I am again, standing at the crossroads of seasons. It’s that fleeting moment when swaths of color still linger, the earthy scent of decaying leaves fills the breeze, and life seems to have settled into a rhythm. But the vibe is on the brink of a dramatic shift—toward winter thoughts, evergreens, woodland creatures adorned with festive scarves, bustling shopping areas filled with Christmas music, and a schedule that regularly flies in the face of normalcy (for many good reasons). Two distinctly different seasons, and culturally, the transition feels sharp, quick, almost like a razor’s edge slicing from one to the other.
It’s in this space that I submit to you some thoughts that I should have earlier in the season of fall. And some that are perfect for this week as well. Because, there will be plenty of thoughts to share once we cross that thinly-carved threshold! Plenty of time to journey together on the enormous meaning of THAT season (and I will be all-in for that I can assure you).
But for now, some thoughts on fall.
Beyond the Highway
This fall was a season unlike any other for me—unexpected, unplanned, yet incredibly meaningful. If you’d told me a year ago that I’d have a gap in my schedule, I would’ve dreamed up a grand adventure: heading to the Rockies, cruising the Appalachians, chasing peak foliage in National Parks, and coming home with photographic gold and maybe a story about surviving an encounter with a wild animal.
But this year, life demanded flexibility. Big adventures gave way to a rhythm closer to home, where my schedule left just enough space for local exploration. And that’s when I discovered something profound: fall isn’t just out there in iconic vistas—it’s right here, hiding in plain sight.
Take my neighborhood, for instance. Across the street, there’s a modest lake—a spring-fed one, though it could be mistaken for a retention pond. A simple wooded trail loops around it, nothing exotic. But late October, after rebuilding my old bike, I decided to try the trail. It was a quick ride, but as I reached the point where the spring feeds the lake, the scene exploded into view—yellows, oranges, and reds dancing against the deep blue water. It was stunning, a moment I wasn’t searching for but that found me anyway.
No photo could capture that experience. Not fully. My eyes, my heart, and even the dimension of time shaped it into something words—or pictures—struggle to express. I used to obsess over capturing scenes like this, but I’ve learned that many moments are meant to be lived, not framed.
This is just ONE moment on ONE short pass of ONE test run on a bike. I went back and forth and back and forth after that, taking it all in stride, urging myself not to stop and see what I missed but to take it in, however it came, each new time, time and time again. (Fun note, i even listened to the same song on repeat). And this one thing, one series of experiences spoke an incredible word to me: ABUNDANCE. Dare I say, INFINITE abundance. Contained right here, on a short trail maintained by the tiniest of HOA fees.
There are more spots under more trees in a similarly immeasurable number of forests on this little rock that revolves around one star in a galaxy of billions. And each of these spots or moments have significance. Because, if we take them as they come to us, there is abundantly more being spoken about beauty than we could ever imagine.
This realization led me to embrace a different approach to fall. Instead of chasing the perfect overlook or the patchwork-quilt landscape, I started paying attention to how color and light interact in the ordinary—how they play tricks, evoke depth, and surprise you when you’re least expecting it. The result? A season filled with awe. Again, abundance. EVERYWHERE.
Here’s the rub: you have to get off the highway, both literally and metaphorically. You can hang a gorgeous fall photo on your wall, but it’s just a shadow of what the moment truly was. Real beauty asks you to slow down, take it in, and experience it in all its dimensions—color, movement, time, and meaning.
(In photography world, that often involves foregoing a shot that might “prove” your ability to others, for what can breathe life into you and put wind in your sails. This, in turn, helps your chosen work to be more selective, true to you, and in line with the creativity you can more fully come alive in.)
This fall became a season of discovery. Not just of trails and trees but of perspective. I found joy in seeking out little moments of color and light in my own backyard, and they showed me an overwhelming truth: creation is abundant, overflowing, limitless in its beauty. And it’s speaking to us if we take the time to listen.
For me, this season also mirrored deeper transitions in my life—ones I hadn’t anticipated but that brought growth and refinement. Remarkable, isn’t it, how a season of “dying” can hold so much beauty? It makes me wonder: what does this teach us about our own lives? How might the design of fall itself point us to the ways God works in and through the transitions we face?
This was the year I fell in love with fall unlike ever before. And, similarly, the deeper truths held within.
Kernel of Wheat
There are many reasons fall is well-loved in our culture. Pleasant temps set in, there are fun activities we look forward to, perhaps sports we are involved in, seasonal snacks and drinks to enjoy. (We’ve clearly just stated how the visuals can make us feel as well.) But one thing that often goes unrecognized is the beauty of Autumn’s role in the cyclical process of the seasons. A genius stroke from the Creator, these three months provide more than just aesthetic value, they provide a necessary process for health and growth in our world. When something is that significant, I like to find a principle that is similarly true in our own lives. Turns out Jesus liked to do this too.
In John chapter 12, Jesus points out the value of death in the world of wheat seeds.
“Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” (John 12:24)
He observes that such seeds must fall to the ground and experience death before they can truly be changed into something else, something capable of producing more life (and better yet, more seeds that can each in-turn do this same thing down the road). He uses this observation from nature as a window into our priorities. If we’re too afraid to let go of our own life, we will miss out on the transformative and fruitful thing our life is actually supposed to become (John 12:25). In a sense, surrender and acceptance don’t naively earn a better life, they allow us to experience a dying life that fundamentally (and ironically) evolves our very core. And with this transformation, many other seeds are born to do the same thing and continue the process.
A North American fall is way different than a middle eastern one, but I have to believe that if Jesus’ earthly ministry would have been right here in the Triad, he would probably have had a field day relating the drawn-out process of transition that our diverse and deciduous falls creep through.
Think of it like an accordion menu on a website. The kernel of wheat metaphor is biblical and solid and observes a scientific principle that mirrors a spiritual one. Fall as a season, at least here in the Southeast, is like an expanded version of that, like if you clicked on the title and one line definition and it expanded to a much wider/longer process of explanation. The truth hasn’t changed, it’s just equally evident in a longer, more drawn-out scientific process.
The fall part of the annual cycle isn’t a renewal in itself, as nothing new is sprouting or growing in place of the leaves that fall off, or shooting up out of the ground after a harvest. It does however, pave the way for renewal as the old is released and nature prepares itself for a period of rest. Winter is coming, and these plants will not die completely, just become dormant until the season after that brings new life.
Winter is a beautiful season in many ways, and Advent can mimic it in its purpose of preparation for new life through rest and expectation. But before all of that comes the shedding. Amazingly, the beauty of that process, here, is that it’s alive with color and wonder.
That’s where this week comes in. What will it take for you/us to appreciate your fall surroundings in a way that you can empathize with a creation that is preparing to rest? One that isn’t preparing for the breakthrough to happen tomorrow, but preparing to hit the needed step of slowing down and resting up before the miraculous happens in the season AFTER next…?
I hope you keep your eyes open to the awe that still remains around us, and allow yourself an opportunity to release whatever is necessary to take on the next season with a sense of rest and childlike expectation. It will bless you, and be a multiplied blessing to others in intangible ways.
November Oaks
The late November colors are always so beautiful to me, though I realize they have often been so overshadowed by fluorescent orange and yellow, even in my own awareness over the years. People often get further into November and say “peak is over” when referring to vibrance but, again, they haven’t slowed enough to allow the color to continue to hit them, or for an appreciation to develop for the way we experience nature multi-dimensionally.
If you have eyes to see, however: there are rich, maroonish oak leaves, always the last to come down, from their mighty-rooted superhero of trees. There are remaining brown-orangish varieties that light up in the morning and evening directional sun. And there are scenes of near bare forests still holding on to just enough foliage that it compliments the piles blanketing the ground below and gives a comforting sense of a rural Thanksgiving or late fall bonfires with family or friends. There’s a transition here that I think needs to be appreciated before all of our thoughts turn to ice or snow.
Could shedding, letting go, releasing, be just as beautiful in our own lives as it is for our surrounding creation? Could it impact others with wonder the way nature does with us? Could it help usher us all into a time of resting and waiting, helping pave the way for the hush we all need in our own journeys?
There’s some thoughts on fall that we need to have, and some deep reds that we need to take in, finding beauty in them even as they fade.
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