Emergence at the Equinox
New life lurks at the base of every aging leaf
For my Danish friend, digging out well-loved sweaters is her favorite part of fall. She introduced me to ‘hygge’ long before it was on the short list for word of the year. Wrapping oneself in the warmth of a knitted cardigan is an apt way to convey the meaning of this term that lacks an English equivalent. Another friend summed up his appreciation for this season in a single word: soup. He is to credit for my fondness of cioppino — hygge in a bowl.
I do appreciate these markers of comfort and the amazing varieties of apples that appear at the farmers’ market this time of year. Nevertheless, I tend to be conflicted about the transition from summer to fall, which feels like a constriction — reining in the long, light-filled days that now slip more quickly into darkness. Living in the Pacific Northwest, a latitude 6 degrees north of my hometown in Indiana, daylight extends nearly 16 hours at its peak on the summer solstice¹; the afterglow of sunset can stretch past 10pm. I find it hard to accept that on the equinox, we have already shaved 3 hours 47 minutes from the length of our days.
Formerly known as ‘harvest’ in the agrarian societies of the 12th and 13th centuries, people started referring to this season as autumn or fall when they moved toward city life in the 1600s.² It’s thought that ‘fall’ is shortened from ‘fall of the leaf’, a phrase that took hold alongside its counterpart, ‘spring’ for ‘spring of the leaf’.
Recently, I looked into long-forgotten lessons from 3rd-grade biology about the turning of leaves. They are green, of course, because they contain chlorophyll, the molecule in charge of photosynthesis — the magical process in which water drawn from the earth travels up from the roots into the leaves, which absorb carbon dioxide from the air and energy from the sun to produce sugary food for the tree and oxygen for us to breathe.
In the cooler temperatures and decreased daylight, chlorophyll begins to break down letting hidden carotenoids become visible. As the chlorophyll fades, it’s not that the leaves are “changing” so much as it is these pigments that have been in the background can now emerge, revealing the brilliant shades of yellow, orange, and red that we so strongly associate with fall.
Meanwhile, in the petiole, the stalk that connects the leaf to the branch, quiescent cells activate to construct an area called the ‘abscission zone’ that has a protective layer and a separation layer. Between these two columns, a fracture line will eventually form and the leaf will give in to gravity or be broken off by a gust of wind. There is debate about why leaves fall at all, though some scientists suggest it’s a mechanism for the tree to relieve itself of waste. In other words, the downed leaves we playfully kick through on walks are essentially colorful piles of desiccated tree poo.
At this time of year, I occasionally feel like the tree, deeply rooted and primed for a KonMari purge, ready to release anything that is unnecessary, even the beautiful but now non-functional leaves. Other times, I feel like the petiole, sensing change and preemptively building walls to separate and protect against inevitable loss. More and more I feel like the senescent leaf, slowing the chlorophyll-focus on production and allowing camouflaged colors to shine through. It’s a shame that leaves wait so long before showing off their most radiant hues.
In Wintering, Katherine May reminds us that this period is not solely occupied with death and decay. Created well before the leaf is shed, new life lurks in the bud that sits safely behind the protective layer at the base of every petiole:
Even as the leaves are falling, the buds of next year’s crop are already in place, waiting to erupt again in spring…we rarely notice them because we think we’re seeing the skeleton of the tree, a dead thing until the sun returns. But look closely, and every single tree is in bud.
The tree is waiting. It has everything ready. Its fallen leaves are mulching the forest floor…its ripe cones and nuts are providing essential food in this scarce time for mice and squirrels, and its bark is hosting hibernating insects and providing a source of nourishment for hungry deer. It is far from dead. It is in fact the life and soul of the wood. It’s just getting on with it quietly. It will not burst into life in the spring. It will just put on a new coat and face the world again.
¹ 15 hours, 59 minutes and 17 seconds this year, to be exact.
² ‘Fall’ is more commonly used in North American English, while ‘autumn’ remains more popular for those who speak British English.
