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September used to be one of my favorite months. It still is. It's the beginning of autumn, and autumn is my favorite season.

A friend was telling me this weekend that spring was his favorite season because it signified rebirth and life. Autumn, to him, represented death and the beginning of winter--a struggle to survive--especially where we come from.

Autumn doesn't represent that to me. Perhaps its because he didn't grow up where I did, in Northern Michigan.

Autumn at home is beautiful. The trees prepare themselves for winter and the breeze shifts from warm to cool. The colors you see looking out practically anywhere on the horizon are startling shades of red, fiery orange, yellow, and hearty brown. It's a visual feast and something I never grow tired of. The air is fresh and has a scent I can still taste, even here in a small, stuffy office in southern California. The water of Lake Michigan turns a darker, navy blue that seems to promise that it will back and protect the land for yet another year. And when the sun shines? The beauty is indescribable. The earthy scent of fall is heightened and everyone who lives there in the north smiles to themselves and counts themselves lucky that they're among the few who know it's secret.

I don't think of fall as the funeral of summer--I think of it as nature's last push of color and beauty before it cleans its canvas to start again.

From this year on, I think I'll make it a point, now more than ever, to think of it as such.