When the busy summer season slows here at HBS, the shift to autumn is just picking up speed. Luckily, it doesn’t happen all at once. Seasonality is seamless at times and, before we know it, we realize that we’ve been moving in this direction all along. Like Aesop’s fabled Ant and Grasshopper, we begin to look (sometimes with urgency) to the impending arrival of fall and then winter. We now take stock of all that we’ve gathered and saved—memories and milestones that will sustain us through the seasons to come.

Cohesive flocks of thrushes and fall migrants move through the gardens and boardwalks like marauding raiders laying claim to the last of the season’s bounty. Swida fruits glisten in the morning mist as Lindenwood exhales in the morning light. Catbirds dangle and screech, moving gracefully through the garden. Juncos and Goldfinch glean wildflower seeds as they sway in the breeze. Boomers and Black Bear move in crepuscular rhythms, combing through the latest scattering of mast from the forest trees. Caterpillars crawl skillfully across branches and twigs with intent, knowing instinctively that their time has come to take that fateful ride to the ground on the falling leaves. These moments are hardly still, but there is an honest motion toward calm.

Nature reminds us that even as the season slows, the action is sometimes just beginning. In the garden, we’ve reached that zenith moment when, simultaneously, the last of the flowers are busily in bloom and the first fall leaves begin to cover the ground. There’s a palpable dichotomy in that—fleeting yet impending. The garden feels serene, yet urgent. There’s always more to do, but less time and daylight to do it in.

While we have begun to settle a bit into that post-season glow, there is still plenty of work and activity to be found. We’ve felt the unsettled disruption of multiple construction projects on campus, and the day feels more frantic somehow when the normal routines of daily life are askew. We’ve had torrential rains that bring ever more water, moving ever faster and with more destruction across our gardens and grounds. Lightning strikes Hemlock with splintering violence and even the air feels more intense. In these moments, we’re often reminded of both the fragility and the resilience of our mountain landscapes.

But when the storm passes, and the fog lifts, we take in the deep breath of a season moving toward slowness. Flowers, foliage and fruit come together in harmonizing hues. Forest and fields are festooned with the culmination of another magical year here at HBS. The last pulse of the season is upon us, but there is a glimmer of that restorative quiescence waiting patiently for us ahead.