To autumn and to birthdays

Autumn is my favourite season. I love it for its colours and the way that it smells. There is nothing more beautiful than low golden sunlight dappled through rusty leaves together with the lush freshness of damp earth. It probably comes as no surprise, therefore, to learn that I am an October baby.

Celebrating a birthday at the end of October means you will always be greeted with a surprise as far as the weather is concerned. Two years ago, it was 20 degrees centigrade (that's hot here) and I floated around town in a flower-print summer dress. Three years ago, I watched the first snow of the winter fall on Birmingham's rooftops, almost scuppering my evening get-together plans as the roads jammed with unforeseen ice.

Even last year it seems I wasn't immune to the unpredictability of my birthday's seasonal backdrop. While spring was advancing through Chile, 28th October 2010 saw snow fall in Santiago city - making it one of those days that all Santiaguinos remember. And for Carlos and I, it made for absolutely unforgettable scenery as we watched our first sunset over the Andes, completed with snow and without pollution.

Well today is again my day. Good fortune meant that I woke up to a classic October scene - crisply cold but with clear blue skies and brilliant sunshine. Rising early, I indulged in reading a short story from Haruki Murakami; it seemed fitting that the only book of his I could find in the library this week, having been recommended the author (for a second time), was his anthology of Birthday Stories.

The childlike delight of unwrapping presents followed of course, along with re-discovering that modern technology's best feature by far is its ability to connect people. One giant digital hug has reached me from South America (and a couple of other parts of the globe), that is as reassuring and blessed as the embrace that stretched out from the UK one year ago, which propelled me on through homesickness and anxiety.

So here's to autumn and to birthdays, for their reminder that for every harsh winter that comes, there are mellow moments of slow-burning gloriousness.