Orion, son of the great sea-god Poseidon, once boasted that his hunting skills were so advanced that he could vanquish any beast on earth. Gaia, the Earth goddess, took great offense and in punishing him unleashed a scorpion, whose sting sent him to his death.
Or so said the ancient Greek poet, Hesiod. Orion and Scorpio have stuck around as constellations in the night sky. If you were to look at the stars tonight (permacloud be gone!), you’d see Scorpio peeking over the horizon—this, ladies and gentlemen, means that fall is upon us, in case you haven’t already noticed.
For whatever reason, the changing position of the Earth around the Sun makes people want to buy things. We’re convinced to believe that a season means we need more than we already have, as if the oncoming Christmas season weren’t enough of a marketer’s dream already. The temperature drops and suddenly we’re buying overly protective footwear and overpriced, artificially flavored beverages as if the sun and moon commanded it.
I’m not saying we should instead hasten into the Indiana wilderness for some forest yoga and stargazing in order to escape the trappings of consumerism. But perhaps there exist better ways to celebrate the muted beauty of the season.
Like this one: next time you’re out walking on the quad, pick out a handful of the most brilliant, intact leaves you can find (God Quad alone has enough fallen leaves right now to compose a copy of Anna Karenina many times over). Then, handwrite a letter, a real, snail-mail letter, fold in a leaf or two, stamp it, and send it off. There’s even a national campaign dedicated to this very act.
Our campus is God-awfully gorgeous in the fall, and we all know it. And we know that not everyone we know is here with us to see it. So send letters, lots of them, and give them a piece of what you know to be true right now. Do it because you like someone, because you love someone, because you hate someone, because you miss someone, or because you encounter someone on the quad who looks like he or she could use some brightening. Chances are it’ll make their day.
Orion and Scorpio never did get along—I mean, the latter incited the demise of the former, and never again will they share the selfsame sky. But they’re both out there somewhere, one disappearing below the horizon, while the other rises, a stellar chase until the end of time.
Down here on Earth, we don’t have the luxury of time. So capture those leaves, write letters, share your reality, and tell them you love them. Because soon enough – shamefully enough – the leaves will be gone, and that is the truth of fall.