Changement des saisons

We are officially in fall here in Mougins.  The chilled air bears headier scents, musky and dank.  The colorful leaves pass underfoot with a delightful crunch – once verdant they now lay discarded in bits and pieces all around. It’s delicious. 

When we moved here in August, it was quite hot and humid.  We fought to keep the rooms cool enough for a good night’s sleep, the pool was inviting with its refreshment, and we stopped for “la glace” (ice cream) almost every day. 

Within a couple of weeks, a broad set of electrical storms passed through, “des orages”.  Tracing their path along the Pyrenees, these supercell storms met the Mediterranean with force.  Their brilliant displays of near-constant strikes shown like the grand finale of a Vegas fireworks show. 

And just like that, l’été turned to l’automne. 

Sundresses were swapped for long skirts and light sweaters.  The A/C units were turned off as nights became comfortable and cozy.  The pool was less of a tease.  Leaves turned yellow, days shortened.  Fall was emerging.

Last week when we returned from Italy, fall had settled into Mougins at a whole new level.  Temps now dip to 40-45 at night; rains come and go; gusts of wind make you grit your teeth.  It’s time for long pants, heavy scarves, and hats.  And we finally purchased a proper umbrella! 

After living in Southern California for the better part of 20 years, this change of seasons is a welcome novelty.  We are delighted to see the steam of our breath as we walk to dinner and marvel over the deepest indigos in the rain-laden clouds over the mountains. 

Fall has always been my favorite season.  It’s a time of year more relaxed than summer, yet not as cumbersome as winter.  The start of school, new notebooks and backpacks, jumpers and jeans not yet worn-through at the elbows and knees.  Scents of harvest wheats and a crackling fire ride on lazy winds.

Fall is a season of collecting our breaths – gathering all that we have sown and reflecting on our blessings.  It is a time when we slowly turn inwards toward our families, hearths, and homes. 

This year autumn takes on its grand beauty, but also greater significance. 

This year, our hearth is still unfamiliar, what we have sown over the years now sits in storage in Van Nuys somewhere.  Still adjusting to the climate, we Californians are three layers deep for our hikes and huddle close together as we watch the boys play soccer.  We spend rainy afternoons playing Rummikub around a new dining table and try to adjust our schedules to make a phone call home to family and friends. 

So much change, yet if I pause to gaze around at the three beautiful familiar faces looking back at me, I struggle to find the words to express how grateful I am for each of them. 

How they motivate and inspire me with their courage at a new school, learning in a new language, and building friendships from scratch.

How they withstand challenges and bravely confront each obstacle – daring to get up and try again and again – battling from the bottom of the heap with new sports and new careers. 

How they remind me of what is important about this journey we are on. 

Much like the many slanted bell towers dotted along the Venice skyline, this little family of mine stands tall because we are learning to lean on each other and dig even deeper into our foundation.  We sway and bend with the winds, without breaking.  We take in the full glory of the sun, while honoring the wisdom of our shadows. 

We hold each other up and remind each other who we are.  We are for sure messy.  We might rub our rough edges on each other, and we have each had our fair share of meltdowns along the way.  But we are making it work.

Because we are rooted in love for each other.  And that’s what matters. 

My father recently pressed me about the kids’ academic education.  Given that they have moved to an alternative Montessori school here, he was concerned that they might fall behind their US peers.  I understand and respect the nature of his question.  The question isn’t far from our minds.

Yet I believe that this adventure is teaching the boys – teaching all of us, frankly – lessons that you can’t measure on a standardized test or capture in traditional curricula. 

Facts, figures, proper essay writing…all of this can be taught. 

Not so the lessons in resilience and grit. 

Not so the experience of being the outsider – the new kid, the one who doesn’t understand what’s being said, the one who isn’t sure if people are laughing with or at you. 

Not so the practice of facing your deepest fears and discovering your worth.

Not so the rawness of being thrown to the ground and having to dust yourself off and go again. 

These lessons must be felt – they must be experienced – they must be struggled through. 

The other stuff follows in due time.

So as we gather together in the coming weeks, I’m going to try to take notice of all of the subtle beauty of fall.  Yes, I will stop to admire the leaves and clouds.  But I will also lean into the quiet moments when I can breathe in the scent of my babies’ hair after their showers, when I can hold my husband just a little longer before the sun rises, when I can acknowledge to myself that we are, in fact, doing ok. 

Bisous,
Hanna