Today, I am thankful for the beauty of autumn.
Over the last few years, I have found myself waking up a bit disturbed, with physical sensations I’ve never experienced before in my life. I often arise to discover a sharp pain in my left knee that makes me reach for an analgesic remedy in my medicine cabinet. I am not obtuse to the notion that my body is aging, as has been radiographically confirmed on an X-ray of my arthritic knee. Although a bit of a nuisance, the process of growing old still beats the alternative of dying young. Even more so, it triumphs over the horrifying image of awaking to discover I’ve undergone some stark transfiguration.
Let me explain.
In 1915, a German-born author penned the tale of a salesman, Gregor Samsa, who awakes one morning to discover that he has mutated into a large insect. Franz Kafka’s novella, entitled Metamorphosis, depicts the account of this poor man desperately trying to adjust to his new life of a ‘monstrous vermin’. Unfortunately, his condition leads to social avoidance and his eventual demise. Sadly, Kafka’s life would also be cut short at the age of 40 due to a disfiguring condition once termed ‘consumption.’ At that time, prior to the availability of any antibiotics to curb tuberculosis, individuals often died from this ‘wasting condition’ after a prolonged period of anorexia and weight loss. You see - growing old sure beats the alternative.
My vicissitudes regarding my age and appearance often leaves me pondering about the change in seasons. Each year, we commence with the season of birth, wherein all the flowers and trees spring forth into bloom and the young offspring of wildlife are welcomed into the world. From there, we enter the peak season of summer, with its long days filled with levity, pleasurable relaxation, and holiday memories. Yet, with the change of the season into autumn, at a time we collect the harvest, we also witness the inevitable conversion of the landscape, with the transformation of the foliage, the brisk change in the temperature, and the shortening of daylight. Finally, as we approach the last season of the year, the bitter frigidity of winter sets in, as most remnants of greenery dissipate only to be replaced by the caustic harshness of the cold, the wind, and the snow.
At the age of 52, I’ve come to realize that I am entering a change in the seasons. My younger days commensurate with the spring and summer of my life are gradually being supplanted by a slightly cooler season. Although I find myself picking the fruits of my harvest with each new career opportunity I pursue, I also realize that my time at work is slowly dwindling. So, it must have felt for the beloved Romantic poet, John Keats, when he wrote the last of 6 odes on this day (Sept 19) slightly more than two centuries ago in 1819. Like myself, Keats aspired to become a physician, and, in fact, he began his studies in 1815 as a ‘dresser’ assisting surgical procedures at the Guy’s Hospital in London. However, later that same year, exactly a century before the release of Kafka’s notorious short story, Keats had his own metamorphosis. Realizing his true passion of writing was being consumed by his time-consuming, clinical responsibilities at the hospital, he would eventually abandon his pursuit of a medical degree to dedicate his life as an author. He took to writing poetry, desperately hoping to modernize the English sonnet into something a bit more relevant for his contemporaries. Earlier in 1819, he had written the first 5 of his odes, with delicate attention paid to a Grecian Urn, a Nightingale, Melancholy, Psyche, and Indolence. Finally, on this day, he sat down to write a relatively short poem of 33 lines, sectioned into 3 stanzas, in tribute ‘To Autumn.’ The beautiful imagery within this short ode shifts from the warm, sensual images of summer to the maturation and growth of the ensuing harvest. Keats chronicles the glory of the gathering of the plentiful harvest, while also lamenting how a scythe cuts down the swath of flowers and tall grasses. Even as the ‘gnats mourn’ and the ‘full-grown lambs bleat’, the presence of the ‘soft-dying days’ of the newly-found season leaves one to wonder the question: ‘Where are the songs of spring?’
As we collectively enter another autumn season in just a few days’ time, I readily acknowledge that I have already entered the autumn season of my life. However, instead of wallowing in misery over the significance of this occurrence, I intend to embrace this new season for all it has to offer, including the fruitful harvest of satisfying work, the enjoyment of my maturing family, and the magnificent colors of the majestic environment that surrounds me. Although I realize I will soon find myself raking leaves and preparing for the frigid climate of the winter season in rather short order, I take solace in the knowledge that I still have so much more time, provided I care for myself.
Unfortunately, John Keats was not so fortunate. The year after he wrote ‘To Autumn’, in September 1820, he moved to Italy for the temperate climate that might help to stem the progression of his own battle with tuberculosis. He took residence in a house near the Spanish Steps, where he would spend his remaining days. In February of the next year, he died at the frighteningly young age of 25. Only after he died would his literary works of art garner him the legacy he now maintains.
Keats appropriately reminds me that I must enjoy the season of autumn. Even as my days shorten, I am eternally grateful for the opportunity to grow old. And lest I forget, the unpleasant twinge of pain from my left knee will nudge me to express my gratitude.
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