I’m always a little sad when summer ends

There’s a particular kind of light that shows up this time of year.

The afternoons take on a golden quality. The mornings and evenings are cooler. A few leaves have started to turn, and more are drifting into yards and gathering along the edges of streets.

Summer isn’t quite over yet, but you can feel it ending.

I’m never quite ready for it.

I love waking up to a sunny morning. I love the warmth, the long days, and how much life seems to move outdoors in the summer. People are riding bikes, eating outside, working in their gardens, squeezing one more thing into an evening because somehow 8 p.m. still feels early.

Then September arrives, and the light starts disappearing a little sooner every day.

It always makes me a little sad.

But here’s the strange thing: I also love this time of year.

As the days get shorter and cooler, I start wanting to turn inward. I want stacks of books and endless cups of tea. I want blankets and candles and afternoons spent writing.

Basically, give me a rainy day and permission not to leave the house and I will find a project.

I’ve felt some version of this for as long as I can remember.

As a kid, fall meant coming inside for something warm to eat after playing outside in the cold. It meant enormous piles of maple leaves, hot cocoa, and the beginning of the season when spending an entire day curled up with a book felt like a perfectly reasonable use of time.

Summer made me want to be out in the world.

Fall made me want to come home.

I’ve been thinking about that distinction lately, especially as I’ve felt my creative energy shifting along with the season.

In summer, I don’t naturally want to spend as much time at my desk. There are too many places to go and things to do. I’d rather be outside, taking advantage of the light while it lasts.

When fall comes, suddenly I want to make things again.

At least, that’s how I’ve always thought about it.

But maybe I’ve been giving fall a little too much credit, because creativity doesn’t begin when I sit down at my desk.

It begins much earlier.

It happens while I’m out in the world, noticing things. Having conversations. Going places. Trying something new. Following my curiosity. Collecting experiences without having any idea that I’m collecting them.

Some will eventually become stories. Others might spark an idea months from now. Most will probably remain nothing more than moments I was lucky enough to experience.

Maybe summer and fall simply play different roles in my creative process.

One pulls me outward. The other draws me back in.

And right now, as the afternoon light turns golden and the evenings arrive earlier than I’d like, I can feel myself somewhere between the two.

Still a little sad to see summer go.

And already wondering what I might make from everything I’m bringing inside with me.

Erin