The festive air of autumn

It is that time of year when half the people can't hide the happiness at entering a season that frees us from stifling heat and scorching sun, while the other half feels downcast at the prospect of heading—once again—into the season that marks the end of summer vacation joy. During this transitional period, it is a stroke of luck to live somewhere where one can witness the changing seasons. Autumn—my favorite season, in case it wasn't obvious—feels like the perfect time to reconnect with oneself: to try out new recipes that fill the house with aroma, to reunite with friends who have been away all summer (or even all year), or simply to return to the often-underrated comfort of routine.

I agree with those who say this is a pivotal moment to reflect on the habits we wish to adopt and those that belonged to a past version of ourselves. I deeply identify with those who eagerly await the drop in temperature (Basque people can handle a lot, but the heat ain’t one of them), longing for the cozy warmth of a space that shields us from the wind and cold outside; with those who find confort in hot drinks; and with those who enjoy watching the landscape gradually shift into shades of ochre. I take great pleasure in the early evening darkness—just as much as, if not more than, the first rays of morning sunlight so full of hope. There is something about that deep darkness settling in around eight o'clock that seems to tell us we can finally go home, that we don't have to keep being productive simply because a sliver of daylight remains.

Autumn is a season where, if you blink for too long, you risk missing the subtle melancholy with which nature turns the page on summer. Yet, for many, that very melancholy can transform into happiness—something that reminds me of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. Vivaldi turns summer into an auditory experience, conveying the languor of bodies beneath a scorching sun. However, when autumn arrives, the music takes on a much more festive air, resonating with those of us who dream of this season all year long. Vivaldi did not intend to represent the seasons abstractly; rather, he sought to offer the audience a melody that allowed them to visualize concrete, tangible scenes. Many of these evoke rural autumn activities, such as hunting or the harvest. Although we may not feel a strong personal connection to those specific tasks today, we undoubtedly identify with others that have endured: gathering with loved ones in a cozy café to catch up; nurturing the projects and dreams that take shape during the darker days of winter; or returning to the small, everyday activities that make up our routines. Autumn is the season when we begin to reclaim our time after the whirlwind of plans and activities driven by the fair weather and long days of summer. Pastimes like reading, people-watching, or simply spending time in nature seem to take on a more magical dimension (if you’re not an autumn person, you’re probably wondering what my diagnosis is by now).

And all this while already looking ahead to Christmas—a time that lifts the spirit with its lights, carols, and those small comforts we take for granted in the twenty-first century, such as coming home to a warm house that you had set to heat up half an hour before your arrival. Although autumn and winter have become heavily commercialized—with new ways to turn these seasons into something to buy appearing every year—what truly reconnects us with them has much more to do with what our ancestors did: creating things with our own hands and engaging in hands-on communal activities. This could involve preparing a recipe, foraging for mushrooms, gathering the garden harvest, painting, or starting to craft the decorations that will adorn our homes for Christmas. Think of dehydrating orange slices for a garland, gathering materials for a wreath—cinnamon sticks, twigs, and velvet ribbons—or honing artistic skills we had previously barely begun to explore.

Here is the recipe for a dried orange garland that I plan to try one of these days, in case you’re feeling adventurous (I know you were torn between this and climbing Mont Blanc—I won’t judge). I’ve also included a more informative YouTube video:

🍂🍊 Dried orange garland recipe 🍁👩🏽‍🌾

You will need: 2 or 3 oranges · thin thread or twine · a needle

1. Slice the oranges thinly and as evenly as possible.

2. Gently pat each slice dry with paper towels to remove excess moisture.

3. Bake at a low temperature (around 90–100°C) for 2 to 3 hours, flipping them occasionally, until completely dry.

4. String the slices onto the thread or twine to form the garland. You can intersperse small bows, sprigs, cinnamon sticks, or other natural elements.

5. Hang the garland wherever you like.

   
   

You can use the oranges this way on your Christmas tree, or—if you’re feeling you just scratched the surface—incorporate them into a Christmas wreath. Whatever the activity, I picture it like one of those vibrantly paintings by Loré Pemberton, an American artist and illustrator who grew up in northern Florida (the cover image is one of hers, by the way), or Vanessa Bowman, an oil painter based in West Dorset, England—where nature takes center stage alongside whatever we happen to be doing, while animals seem to watch our little tasks with curiosity and a hint of bewilderment.

Perhaps that is precisely what I love about autumn: for a few weeks, it seems to invite us to pay attention to small things that go practically unnoticed the rest of the year. And then, in the blink of an eye, we find ourselves face-to-face with a biting winter— seasons Vivaldi captured with such sensitivity.