By Francesc Borrull · October 28, 2024

The Fall season always arrives like an old friend, carrying whispers of change on the crisp breeze. It’s a time when the world feels like it’s exhaling, the warmth of summer releasing its grip to make way for cooler, more contemplative days. The trees wear their final, most vibrant outfits—gold, amber, crimson—colors that feel like warmth and farewell all at once. Walking beneath their canopies, I feel the soft crunch of leaves underfoot, and there’s a distinct scent of earth, slightly damp, mingling with the sharpness of the cooling air.

As I watch the leaves float down, spiraling lazily to the ground, I can’t help but think of how much this season mirrors life. There’s a beauty in letting go, a grace in surrendering to time, much like the trees do. It’s not an end, but a transition—a pause before renewal. The harvest season deepens this feeling. There’s a gathering, a reaping of what’s been sown, a reminder that hard work, whether in fields or in life, bears fruit. And yet, beneath this bounty, there is a quiet understanding that things are winding down, preparing for winter’s rest.

But before we retreat fully into that slumber, there’s celebration. Halloween and Día de los Muertos offer such contrasting, yet connected, glimpses into our relationship with life and death. Halloween, with its eerie charm, brings the playful shadows out to dance. Pumpkins, carved with mischievous grins, glow against the twilight, as the air fills with the scent of bonfires and the occasional waft of candy apples. It’s a night of masks and mysteries, of embracing the spooky and unknown with a wink and a smile.

Then comes Día de los Muertos, and the mood shifts. It is no longer about the fear of death but the reverence for it. The marigolds—oh, those marigolds—their bright orange petals seem to capture the sun itself, guiding spirits home. Altars are built, filled with the fragrant aroma of pan de muerto and the soft flicker of candles. The memories of loved ones, long gone, are alive in the stories, in the laughter, in the offerings. It’s a celebration that feels both sacred and joyous, a reminder that death is not an end but a continuation, a presence that walks with us, just on the other side of a thin, shimmering veil.

For me, as a runner, Fall carries yet another layer of significance. The training blocks I’ve built over the summer months culminate in October. The races arrive, challenging me to pour out every ounce of effort I’ve stored. The cool air is perfect for running—the sharp bite of the wind on my face, the steady rhythm of my breath, the satisfaction in pushing through the last few kilometers of a race. It’s a sense of closure, of completing something I’ve worked hard for. October races feel like the final act, much like the season itself, where energy is released before the calm of winter settles in.

It’s not unlike the Spring races in April, where the air is still crisp, but the world is waking up. Fall races, however, are different. They are the culmination of a journey, a burst of speed before the stillness. Much like the leaves, I feel myself drifting down, settling into a slower rhythm as the season comes to a close.

Fall, for me, is a dream that lingers just beyond waking—alive with color, sound, and meaning. It’s reflective but never mournful, filled with celebrations of the seen and unseen. It’s a time to breathe in deeply, to savor the beauty of the moment, and to embrace the transitions, both in nature and within ourselves.

© Francesc Borrull, 2024