At the beginning of the fall season, when the air becomes crisp and the leaves start to lose their greenish hue, I indulge in my favorite annual tradition: a viewing of Wes Anderson’s “Fantastic Mr. Fox.” Unlike most seasonal traditions, celebrated with friends and family in apple orchards or pumpkin patches, mine takes place alone, under the covers of my warm bed, in the middle of the night. This way, I feel immersed in one moment — outside of my little bubble, time stands still.
Like me, “Fantastic Mr. Fox” is also stuck in a single idealized moment in the middle of autumn. In almost every scene, the sky is a saturated orange. Every tree clings to only a handful of bronzed leaves, and every blade of grass assumes a brassy yellow hue. Mr. Fox even boasts a cornucopia ripe with corn and obsesses over the classic seasonal beverage, apple cider.
Beyond the movie’s autumnal aesthetic, Mr. Fox himself is stuck in his own idealized moment: his past. He recalls the glory days when he and his friends would engage in mischief, laments the mundanity of his middle-aged life and fears the prospect of death — the inevitable winter. In his autumn, the transition between the nostalgic summer and the uncertainty of winter, all he wants to do is go back. He longs for the days when he felt “fantastic,” and I do, too.
With each viewing, I’m reminded of my desire to return to a time when I was more “fantastic.” This year, as I hit play on the film in a new room, 500 miles away from home, I felt less “fantastic” than I ever have before.
For the first time, I felt nostalgic about my foliage-filled town in the heart of New England. I felt I’d left behind a “better” version of me. Back home, I was a team captain and club president — a brother, a son, a best friend. Now, as I study almost every night for midterms, alone in the cramped study rooms of Lau 2, obsessing over every detail that might compromise 30% of my grade, I can’t help but long to return to the time and place before I was just some kid living in Darnall Hall.
But as this year’s viewing ended at 3 a.m. on a Thursday, I found a new meaning to the movie I have seen a million times: There is no such thing as “better days.” I thought back to last year — the fall of my senior year — and tried to remember how things were better then; I was quick to forget the chaos of applying to ten different universities before their deadlines. Those days were not any better, but after every late-night study session and early-morning wake-up, I tell myself they are. Sometimes, I can only look at my past through rose-tinted glasses.
In remembering that things aren’t any less “fantastic” now than they were in my past, I am reminded to enjoy the present — in even the smallest ways. After the hot weather to start the school year, there is something refreshing about the chilly mornings and cool evenings. Exchanging my iced coffee order at The Corp or Epi’s for hot coffee has added a little bit of joy to my life. Having the right weather to sport a flannel jacket also never fails to put a smile on my face.
Instead of romanticizing the past, I can romanticize the now. Even if midterm madness and club commitments take up most of my time and effort right now, in a new setting I’m still learning to navigate, I can focus on the little things — the simple pleasures of life.
Things don’t have to be “fantastic” — a reflection of an idealized past — to be wonderful. Even as the once-green leaves wilt from the trees preparing for winter, they still look beautiful. As I deal with the stress of my first midterm season and the other challenges that come with being a college first-year, finding the beauty in the little things keeps me going.
I never expected the conversations with my roommates about badminton, the discussions with my girlfriend about her autumnal nail palette or the friendly interactions with strangers in the elevator every morning to be the highlights of my day at this point in my first year. But they make my day fantastic in their own way.
As mundane as they might seem, they’re part of my fairy tale — and that’s all that matters.
Dylan Goral is a first-year student in the College of Arts & Sciences. This is the third installment of his column, “The Fairy Tales We Tell.”