Fall has always been my favorite season. Growing up, I remember playing in the yard, feeling the autumn breeze rush through my hair, delighting in the multi-colored leaves raining over me. There was something earthy and primal and thrilling about it. I even picked up small fallen tree branches and wielded them like wands, and believed I commanded the wind itself. It seemed to gust for me on command.

Wherever I’ve lived—North, South, East or West—autumn is when I feel the closest to my true self, whoever she might be. Everything about the season enchants me, from the angle of the sun to the wood-smoke smells, even hearing the satisfying crunch of dry leaves underfoot. Oh, and those glorious robes that nature dons—especially the shades of crimson, mahogany, russet—are a visual feast. Between the sights, scents and sounds, all my senses quiver.

My mild complaint is that autumn seems to last only a few short weeks in comparison with summer or winter, which drag on for months.

If I could find a place where’s it’s forever fall and 65 degrees, I do believe that would be my personal, earthly paradise.