I’ve always been an outspoken autumn enthusiast. My affinity for thick knit sweaters and decorative gourd centrepieces cannot be overstated enough. A passion that often has me wrestling another woolly top into my already crowded closet and decorating my countertops in miniature squashes. Though I’ve never jumped on the Pumpkin Spice Latte bandwagon (a beverage enjoyed by what seems like a seasonal cult), anything else fall-related I tend to embrace. This is to the disdain of my more summer-oriented friends who curse the arrival of fall and yearn for the sun-kissed days of July. My love of fall is vested in the season’s charming hallmarks: the way oak, elm, and crab apple trees—those magical changelings—transition across a spectrum of color, cloaking my neighborhood in autumnal hues of gold and bronze. Or how my favorite, the towering maples, shed their leaves until the sidewalks resemble a crimson carpet. The invigorating crispness of the morning air that spurs me to wrap myself in a thick scarf during my morning walk to work. Or the way I don’t have to apply SPF 100 to my sun-sensitive skin each time I venture outdoors.
I don’t often mention being on the southwest coast of Thailand on December 26, 2004. In the rare instance that I do, or it inadvertently comes up, it’s with far more acceptance than my previous self, with still raw sensibilities, could sufficiently feign. I hold no allusions that the events of that day will be graspable to others. There is no universal language for the individual experience; no way to translate things in a way that encapsulates all the subtle nuances and bold complexities of subjectivity. There are emotions and memories that have burrowed themselves away deep, beyond reach of our impulse to generalize. Yet, I am far more welcoming of people’s efforts to do so. Of their efforts to empathize through the lens of their own experienced sorrows. Of the underlying humanity that motivates their gesture. Of the sincerity and openness that fuels their inherent desire to connect. And of the humbling instances where I am met with mirrored vulnerability.
In a recent McSweeney's article titled "RIP, 2017" writer Pete Reynolds unapologetically sums up, “In life, 2017 was an avid collector of mass shootings, devastating natural disasters, and unfortunate accounts of famous old men groping their female colleagues.” Counter to this resoundingly "bad", 2017 also delivered varying degrees of good, including the Women’s March, the legalization of same-sex marriage in Australia, and Greta Gerwig’s directorial debut Ladybird. Whether your outlook is steely focused on inspiring stories of progress, or fixated on negative tales of resurgent fascism and our seemingly obdurate march toward nuclear warfare, I think we can all agree that we are bidding adieu to 2017 on a somewhat conflicted note.
Mr. P. was an eccentric. An intellectual. A philosophizing soul who was respected by staff and idolized by students. Broad-shouldered and tall, he had a lengthy beard matched by a pair of thick sideburns. When I first met him, I expected a deep, authoritative voice to emerge, but instead a far more tempered one spoke, with a candid hippie-like inflection reminiscent of The Dude in The Big Lebowski. Though he evades description, if I were to venture one, physically, Mr. P. kind of resembled Santa Claus. Or rather, St. Nick’s maverick brother, who rebelled by rejecting the family business, and absconding to the Canadian West Coast, proclaiming, “To hell with snow and pine trees, man. I’m moving south and teaching the generation of tomorrow!”
Our most insightful moments often arise during challenging periods, when things do not go according to plan, and we need to be our most resourceful and inventive selves—situations which lend credence to the tenet of tough times fueling our inner innovator. This isn’t to say that all pursuits need rise from the ashes of adversity (though it certainly does feed into the stereotype of the angst-ridden artist, doesn’t it?), but rather is meant to drive home the point that every moment possesses a measure of the inopportune. So, why not embrace the notion of it being the imperfect time by pursuing an aspiration or two in the enticingly flawed present?