A Love Letter to Autumn

A longing with nothing to long for

I love autumn. There’s something so gentle, yet transformative, in the way fall slowly takes over the landscape—turning green leaves into fiery hues, filling the air with the scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke. Of course, I live in Prague, so there is there is no smell of woodsmoke, but a girl can dream.

Here, it’s more the sharp bite of cold air and the wet cobblestones glistening after the rain. The city wears autumn differently, more reserved but no less beautiful. The Vltava River mirrors the moody sky, and the old buildings seem to sigh in sync with the season, as if they, too, are adjusting to the change. There’s something about the way the air feels—like it’s heavy with nostalgia, with all the things autumn seems to represent: endings, beginnings, the in-betweens.

September brings a juxtaposition of slowing down and starting over. The former is caused by the looming shadow of winter. The latter is amplified by years and years of back-to school conditioning that now transforms into a strong feeling of do-do-do. September is great when it comes to creativity. Perhaps it’s the most creative month out there. For 15 years of my life, it has represented a start of a new term: new books, new knowledge, new creative endeavours. I might not have as much energy as before but I did buy new notebooks and signed up for a pottery course. I also made a plan. Of course I did. What is a woman without a plan?

The second it gets cold, I start rereading “Wintering” by Katherine May. “We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again.” I want to see my bare bones. I grew up in Russia, and for a Russian no autumn is ever without toska /ˈtō-skə/. Nabokov describes it with great love: "No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”

A longing with nothing to long for is what I feel come November. Fall offers a completely different sensory environment which in turn promotes a psychological change. The leaves fall with a kind of slow resignation, and I find myself doing the same. But what am I falling into? The world is slowing down, urging everyone to do the same, and in that slowness, there’s a strange kind of discomfort. We’re so used to moving forward, chasing the next thing, but in the stillness of November, what’s left to chase? Perhaps there’s a kind of peace in the longing itself, in letting go of the need to have something to long for at all.

I am a (home)cook/baker. It’s too hot to bake in the summer. We don’t have a proper AC, and even if we did, it just feels criminal to turn on the oven when the outside feels like one. But now, now, because there’s something undeniably comforting about fall foods — that’s just the truth, I will barely turn the oven off: apple galettes, pumpkin pies, cinnamon rolls. I will make Sunday roasts, hearty almost goulash quality soups and fatty lasagnas, chicken pot pies and cheesy quiches. And the bread — the bread. My sourdough starter, Selma, died in May (rest in peace), so now is the time to grow a new one, or, perhaps, write a pleading letter on a neighbourhood Facebook page asking someone to share. That’s how I got Selma — from a lovely French lady living across the park from me.

Autumn brings so many questions. How much pumpkin is too much pumpkin? How early is it too early to light the candles? Can I start wearing cashmere right this second? Answers: there is no such thing, as early as you want, dah.

I love the visual transformation autumn brings: the greyness of the sky, the rustiness of leaves. I feel hunger for cold air and cinnamon buns. I bought rubber boots and a Barbour jacked, and all I need now is a peaky blinder hat, a couple of corgis and a horse. I can’t wait to go on long windy walks. There’s a magic in the way fall paints the trees in amber and rust. Fall reminds me of the importance of comfort, of slowing down, and of finding joy in the simple things. There’s an intimacy in the quiet it brings, where the hustle of summer fades into the soft whispers of wind through leaves as the days grow shorter. It’s time to get under a blanket and drink tea, watch Dead Poet Society and Mona Lisa Smile. It’s time to read Secret History and Practical Magic. It’s time to get loser to heart and home.

Fall mornings are my favourite. And I don’t mind the grey. It’s still dark outside when I wake up. I make a cup of coffee and write my morning pages. I turn on the star hanging in the window (the one we didn’t take down since Christmas), and for a while it’s the only light in the room. Then the sun slowly rises, yet it’s still a bit dark. And later, stepping outside, the air feels like a cool embrace, and the light, suddenly softer and more golden than any other season, casts everything in a nostalgic glow. Even the sound of footsteps on fallen leaves feels musical.

And the rain. Oh the rain. Do you know this old song from the 60s? Can you remember the raaaaaaiiiiin? September is criminally cold right now and Prague is alarmed with flood warnings. It’s bad in the big picture but strangely satisfying from the comfort of your own home. I know it’s a very privileged thing to say, a thing of almost Parasite quality, but I love the rain. There’s a kind of intimacy in it, a closeness to the world outside while being just out of its reach. The way the sky seems to collapse in on itself, the way everything looks softer, like the edges have been blurred.

Prague in autumn is a kind of poetry. The tourists start to thin out, the streets become quieter. It feels like you have more space to think and to be. Walking through the narrow lanes, with leaves underfoot and the chill creeping in, it’s not hard to love it all, to remember letting go is not the end.