I watch the sun burn circles in the sky

Finally, the rain comes again.

I love fall for all the usual romantic reasons: the changing colors and their fleeting vibrance, the sweet damp mulch of leaves under my feet, the scent of woodsmoke on the frosty air, the transition to sweatshirt weather, pumpkin spice lattes, cider, trips to the pumpkin patch. Near the end of August, I become increasingly neurotic. I do not relish the last days of stale afternoon heat, especially once I return to school; teaching is much easier in more subdued weather.

I always miss Montana at this time of year -- I miss the mountains rising above the golden fields, the colors in the trees and the snow in the mountains. The first frost, the first crunchy layer of snow on the grass. Two years ago, while I was on maternity leave for a semester, I traveled to Minnesota with Suzannah and my mom for Concordia's homecoming in October. We spent a couple of days in Bozeman, and I realized it was the first time in six years that I'd been to Montana during the fall.

Carmen drove home with me for mid-semester break in October of our senior year. I remember so clearly one golden afternoon of that long weekend; we climbed through the barbed wire fence at the edge of my parents' property and made our way down to the creek. We found a bridge consisting of wooden planks placed across two logs that stretch across the water and sprawled on our backs, our legs dangling over the side. I tipped my head back until I was upside down, gazing at the sky and water and inverted trees. A gust of wind shook the remaining golden leaves clinging to the branches, and they swirled above our heads in colorful flurries before drifting down to land gently on the water, the ground, in our hair. It was a moment of such still perfection it was hard to believe it was real. I watched one perfect leaf dip and twirl until it landed and the current carried it downstream. The beauty of it almost hurt with its simple intensity.

But I love where I'm at, too. I think the trick, for me, is to make sure I get out of the city a time or two during the fall. Last October, I played hooky from a day of "professional development" and went to the pumpkin patch at Remlinger Farms with Suzannah and the other kiddos at her daycare. The drive was beautiful, a reminder that I don't have to drive six hundred miles for hillsides rich with autumn colors.

This week, though, I'm simply grateful for the rain. Mornings are quiet and foggy again, and my nerves aren't quite so jumpy. It's easier, somehow, to find that beautiful balance between motherhood and teaching and everything else, the reminder that each part of my life feeds the rest.