When I was a little girl, my love for this season was pure and untainted. As was my love for winter with its surprise snow days, summer with its lazy hours by the pool and world of adventure in my imagination, and my absolute favorite spring, with all that new life poking through and washing the world in bright new green. Then I grew up. Things–and opinions–began to change.

My mother-in-law is an outdoors person, one with Mediterranean blood. She hates winter. I’m talking with-a-passion. My husband does too, though not as bad as his mom. So for them, fall is just a precursor. In every brisk breeze, they see the endless winter looming. In every falling leaf, they see the end of their favorite summer. I once observed how I loved the smell of a forest in the fall, and my scientifically minded honey replied, “You know that’s just rot, right?”

Thanks, dear. Really.

I confess I’m not such a big fan of winter now that there’s no such thing as a day off because of snow. So I now tend to say things like, “I really love fall . . . if only it didn’t end in winter.”

But part of me wishes I could forget the negativity. I could . . . but someone would point it out. And that’s fine, because that’s their opinion. Inside me, though, is that little girl who loves every season the Lord paints on my world. I love watching time roll over the mountains. I love the colors on the trees, even if it does mean they’re dying. I love the smell of that autumnal forest, even if it is rot. I love that cool air, even if it does mean nasty winter gusts are on their way.

It’s just another example of who I am, I guess. I’ll acknowledge your downsides. No point in denying them when they’re true. Just don’t expect me to dwell on it. So long as autumn is blazing across the trees, I’m going to enjoying every breeze.