If only the Philippines had autumn. There’s something elegant about the thought of walking under trees that rain gold and rich, deep red, of streets softened by fallen leaves and skies tinted with the quiet melancholy of change. Maybe, if we had autumn, we would also learn the art of letting go more beautifully — to release, gracefully, what must fade.

I know many people prefer spring, and it makes sense. It comes after a long, quiet winter and brings back light, color, and a feeling of starting over. Flowers bloom, animals become more active, and people seem to move in step with that fresh energy. Spring is about beginnings, while autumn is often seen as the season of endings. But in my travels, it’s still autumn that has stayed with me the most.

In other places all over the world, autumn arrives like a painter armed with a warm palette. People speak with awe about Kyoto, New England, South Korea, and so many European cities dressed in fall colors. Yet nowhere has autumn felt as grand and soulful to me as it did in Quebec, Canada. I experienced it about 10 years ago, maybe more, during one of our family trips. Travel has always been our way of bonding, slipping away for a while from the busy world of Manila. It was probably late September or early October when we went to Quebec, and the sight was nothing short of breathtaking. Forests that had been lush and green had turned into a vast sea of color — bright scarlets, deep burgundies, burning golds, and rich coppers that seemed to glow from within. The mountains and hills became a living canvas, perfectly reflected on the still, glassy surfaces of lakes and winding rivers.

We would walk through Old Quebec smelling wood smoke mingling with the sweetness of maple syrup drifting from small cafés. The cobblestone streets, framed by rows of flaming trees, carry the charm of an old European village caught in a moment of perfect calm. It was like walking through a painting! We would see locals bundled up in soft scarves, a few tourists taking pictures, and I notice that everyone seems to walk a little slower — as if taking care not to disturb the fragile beauty around them. Looking back, I also miss the sound of the season: the crisp crunch of leaves underfoot, and the gentle rustle of wind passing through forests preparing to sleep. It’s not just a season there — it’s a celebration of change, a yearly composition written in color and light.

Autumn has a kind of quiet wisdom that we don’t really get to experience firsthand. If spring is about hope and new beginnings, autumn is more about recognizing that change and letting go are normal parts of life. Maybe I am just at that part of my life, but I find myself looking back more often now, and autumn naturally invites that kind of pause — to slow down, pay attention, and remember. I think of the times I sat in cafés for hours, simply watching people pass by. Autumn feels reflective without being heavy. It shows that endings do not always have to be sad; they can be calm, even gentle. It also suggests that what we lose or leave behind can make room for something new, and this is true both in nature and in our own lives.

If the Philippines ever knew autumn, perhaps we would find more moments of quiet between our searing summers and violent storms. We might pause to breathe, to shed what no longer serves us — old habits, grudges, or fears — as effortlessly as a tree releases its leaves.

This, I think, is the beauty of our journeys: loving the Philippines while longing for the beauty of the places we’ve been to sitting quietly side by side in one heart. I have fallen in love many times with the beauty of our country—its warmth, its laughter, its constancy. I cherish the feeling of experiencing the humid air of Manila evenings, the smell of rain on sunburned roads, the sound of dry acacia leaves beneath our slippers on quiet Tondo afternoons ,and the easy way, when it’s just the perfect time of day, our beaches hold the light.

Maybe that’s the best balance we can hope for: to appreciate where we’re rooted, while still allowing a part of us to look forward to new places and small autumns of our own.

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