O hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all. —from October by Robert Frost
You can have all the other months. But give me October. I want the chill to settle in soft as fog over a lake. I want soup season in full swing. I’m ready for auburn and orange to fall like a blanket over the shoulders of the hills. To lounge in my living room with a wood-wick candle and a gothic novel. To usher in the early darkness with the gentle crooning of jazz. It’s time. Give me October.
This year marks my first autumn out of school—and my only autumn out of school, Lord-willing, for a while. October is still the month of academics for me, just without homework and the petty school drama that winds itself around the idle hearts of students this time of year.
October is dramatic enough for me, fiery and expressive in its own right. If you pay attention, you can feel this month’s giddiness in your bones—even the Earth is feral with delight. This October there is an annular solar eclipse, a Friday the thirteenth, and a lunar eclipse. Possibly even werewolves, if you can believe that there are things beyond your tidy explanation. Now is the time of year to be comfortable with mystery.
Now is the time of year to be comfortable with mystery.
Flannels and apple treats are set to make their appearances. Already I’ve made a stovetop cider to ring in this season, along with a multitude of soups. I’ve dressed my house in black shrouds and candles. A skeleton greets visitors from my mantel, and cauldrons adorn the tops of the tables. I hung a sign above my kitchen that reads, “Welcome, goblins.”
We welcome many things in October. It is the beginning of the slow death of the world we know. The trees are forgetting their foliage and will soon be bare. Crisp winds steal warmth and sunlight from the sky. Everything is closing up except the chrysanthemums. Soon I plan to gather mums into a bouquet and arrange them in the center of my dining table. There is no better way to give a dining room new life.
Yet poets who write about October write mostly about death and the closing of day. I think of Hardy and Hopkins, whose depictions of fall coexist with mourning. But I feel October is when I finally begin to live. I hibernate in the pollen-thick trenches of spring, under the oppressive quilt of summer. Then I wake when the wind plunges its icy dagger through the heart of September. The trees change into scarlet and gold—morning light that lasts the entire month.
I feel October is when I finally begin to live.
Some of my favorite poets were born in October, John Keats and Ezra Pound—and still others—Plath, Wilde, Levertov, Cummings, Coleridge. Even Virgil. (And me, though I can hardly count myself among the ranks of these writers.) October will always be a month for poets, even if the poems are sad.
When I write about October, I write about life just beginning. I turn a year older each October, but I’m no longer afraid of growing up. I think, “What will I publish this year? Who will I meet? How will I grow?” I remember my younger self being so excited to be the age I am now, and every October my heart grows a little fonder toward her.
I want to tell her how much she will continue to love the month of midterms, mulled cider, and magic. In middle school she’ll discover the terribly produced Hammer horror flicks and save them for her rainiest days. In college she’ll watch Hocus Pocus for the first time and fall in love with Halloween all over again. She’ll read Dracula and the short stories of Shirley Jackson and wonder what took her so long.
For two autumns she’ll grieve deeply, but she’ll keep on living somehow. Healing will arrive the following fall in its quiet way. In autumn she will write her best work and her most difficult work, which (she’ll discover) are often the same thing. Poetry and hope will proliferate in spite of grief. In a season rife with death, she will find life—every single year—in October.
After all, death has never been the end of anything.
After all, death has never been the end of anything. The world is not truly dead; it is only resting. October is a sleepy month for many, and I think this is because October is an open invitation to repose—to join the gentle stirring of sleeping branches and fallen leaves, and quiet your heart. Listen. Resurrection lurks somewhere around the corner.
The hills and trees will remember green. Deep in the veins of the slumbering trees, there are resilient slivers of spring. But in the meantime, there are the beautiful browns and glistening golds—life hid away, but never gone. The world is only beginning to be made new.
L. M. Montgomery once said she is glad to live in a world where there are Octobers.
I’m glad too.
Films I’m watching
Nosferatu (1922 | NR) — silent film
It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (1966 | G)
An American Werewolf in London (1981 | R)
Rehearsal for Murder (1982 | PG)
Clue (1985 | PG)
It (1990 | TV-14) — miniseries
Hocus Pocus (1993 | PG)
Over the Garden Wall (2013 | PG) — miniseries
If you’re a Gothic movie buff, you might enjoy my Edward Scissorhands film review. You can also view all the movies I’ve reviewed on my Film Reviews page. There’s a new one coming soon!
Novels I’m reading
The Haunting of Hill House (Shirley Jackson)
Something Wicked This Way Comes (Ray Bradbury)
Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde (Robert Louis Stevenson) — novella
The Violent Bear It Away (Flannery O’Connor)
Keep your eyes peeled for upcoming book reviews!
Music I’m playing
Eternal Reach (The Brummies)
“Jazz for Autumn” playlist (Spotify) — instrumental
St. John Green (St. John Green)
When Harry Met Sally soundtrack (Harry Connick, Jr.)
Thanks for reading. Happy spooky season from Light After Rain.