Well, it’s been a quiet week in Ponyville, my hometown, out there on the edge of the valley.
It’s now Autumn in Ponyville, that reflective season, where for a moment we pause in between the great extremes of warm exuberance and cold misery to observe the full color of life before the winds come to knock it away. It is a time of year when you walk outside onto the cobbled streets of downtown and just take in the view of thatched roofs reflecting a glow of afternoon light made warm by the oranges, reds, and ochres of the trees as they prepare their leaves for the inevitable falling.
Time itself ceases to exist, carried away by the crisp breezes that rustle the trees and bring sweet smells of ripe apples and cinnamon and everything else that reminds you of when you were a foal, watching the Cakes throw out tasty confections in the window of Sugarcube Corner that you wanted so badly but knew your mom would scold you for later. The return of Fall in Ponyville is like the return of your foal hood; to feel the cool air is to feel like that time when being a blank flank was okay, cool even.
Miss Cheerilee has been busy with the school ponies this week. Last week was Nightmare Night, and she is using the candy-fed energy of the fillies and colts to prepare the annual Fall Festival that raises money for the schoolhouse. This year the funds are going to the repair of the old bronze bell, which has been cracked ever since Scootaloo decided to run a zip-line through the bell tower before school started. Cheerilee had been surprised, upon rushing to the school after hearing the massive clank that rang through town, that the orange filly’s little hooves barely showed a chip while the bell itself had absorbed the full impact. The adventurous youth had been unfazed by the consequences of the accident, and thus Cheerilee assigned her to be in charge of planning part of the festival as a suitable discipline.
The punishment didn’t faze Scootaloo either, much to Cheerilee’s dismay. There is just no stopping the resilient, ignorant, precious innocence of youth, especially when Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle are its companions.
From what I’ve heard the trio of crusaders have a proper festival planned. The students have been hard at work decorating the walls with little crafts made from premature fallen leaves while the Foal Free Press has been running a special column all week, announcing all the games, treats, and activities to be enjoyed by the attendees. Apple Bloom got her sister to make booths for apple-bobbing, caramel apples, a tank that dunks hapless volunteers into water using apples, and pretty much anything else as long as it involves apples. She also got Big Mac to volunteer to drag the hay cart for rides through the wheat fields next to the school yard. Sweetie Belle convinced Rarity to organize a silent auction for the adults, and of course Pinkie Pie is in charge of the musical cake walk as she always is. And Scootaloo even asked Rainbow Dash to coordinate the perfect weather for the day of the festival.
Even when I was a foal, the air was always crisp at the Fall Festival, the sky a mix between high gray clouds and splotches of a rich blue that allowed peaks of golden sunlight to mingle with the shadows around the school. A distinguishing geographical feature of that part of Equestria are the long ridgelines that run parallel to each other; in the Fall these ridges provided a vivid backdrop of colorful foliage and served to frame the clouds that flew over the valleys. The valleys themselves were like a warm blanket, closing around us foals in a warm embrace that told us we were safe, and that life was going to be great.
Of course, not everything can remain the same for long and perhaps no pony in town knows this better than Rainbow Dash. Next week is the Running of the Leaves and along with it the beginning of hibernation for her pet Tank. To her, the season of Fall takes on a different atmosphere, where suddenly things in life change more rapidly than the foliage; regardless, the progression of season should serve to remind us, as it did her when she first got Tank, that life still goes on despite the scary unknown of tomorrow.
The skies seem a bit grayer around this time of year as Rainbow Dash lets her mood affect her weather jobs. But then again, some ponies find that this grayness allows the color of the landscape to stand out in greater contrast, the dark blue in the clouds complementing the rustic orange of the trees in a dramatic statement of change.
Indeed, it was on gray day such as the ones frequenting Ponyville’s skies this week that I began to really look at the world around me and consider my place within it. I recall, as a blank flanked foal, taking classes with the school’s art club. I would stay after school until the short daytime light gave way to foggy, moonlit nights, recreating the intricate twisting forms of the trees that caught first the sun then the moon outside the schoolhouse windows. It was during a field trip among the apple groves surrounding Ponyville to collect autumn specimens for a leafy collage that I paused to look at the rows of trees, their leaves arranged like comfortable little blankets around their trunks. I realized just how much I loved to capture nature’s expression through my art. I was secure knowing that I could be happy with a future as an artist; but my flank was still blank, the future still a scary unknown. And life went on.
Such are the troubles of youth, when you want nothing more than to know, oh please Celestia, just know who you are going to be. The older ponies that trot through the cobble streets of downtown and chat in the marketplace all seem to know, their knowledge broadcast straight into your young mind by the cutie mark that stands proudly on their flank. And yet, when you get older, you realize that you still don’t know what they did back then. It’s the kind of knowledge that can’t be written down in a book.
Perhaps somepony should tell Twilight Sparke this, that is, if they can find her. The last anypony sighted her was at the school’s Fall Festival, walking around with the most absurd grin planted firmly on her mouth as she directed the silent auction’s books. It was all one could to do to force an awkward smile back whenever she stood over your shoulder at the little tables littered with colorful baskets of soaps, or candles, or lamps, or really anything else that seemed like it would go great in this room or that . That is, until you get home and realize you already have three of the same things but in clashing color palettes all competing for the same space. Then you remember that smile only a few inches from your back and put down a bid anyways; it’s for the foals you mutter to yourself.
Which is why it was such a relief when, at the end of the auction, Twilight’s grin was replaced by an equally absurd, but certainly less compelling, caramel-coated apple shoved there by an eager Pinkie Pie. Applejack had made the coating a bit too sticky, although some suspect mischievous collusion with Rainbow Dash, because the apple remained stuck to Twilight’s muzzle for the rest of the evening. Through the cake walk, through the hayride, through the little recital the foals performed. Eventually the apple came off as water from Twilight’s turn at the dunking tank softened the apple enough for her to bite down and free her jaws. The smile returned to carry her back home to where nopony has seen her since.
To those acquainted with the patterns of life in Ponyville, they know that Twilight’s absence is due to her rigorous training regimen in preparation for the annual Running of the Leaves. Of course, her prize is not the ribbon of first place, but the run itself. Ever the consummate professional, Twilight will spend the next several days locked in her library, pouring over scientific volumes dedicated to tree identification and dusty anthologies of seasonal poetry and detailed field manuals on observational techniques and heavy catalogues of autumn-scape paintings - all a part of the professional’s drive towards mastery of her craft.
Following my foray into art as a foal I decided to pursue the diverging route of the professional and joined the Ponyville Band as an oboist. Little did I know the amount of work I needed to put into mastering the quirks of this demanding yet beautifully plaintive instrument, but the long hours with the band yielded some of the most memorable Falls that I experienced in Ponyville. During these times the season was always characterized by the end of our marching band season and the beginning of our winter orchestral concert preparations. I cherish memories of those late autumn performances in nearby villages, of gazing out of the travel carts to see the spectacle of Equestria in autumn pass by, and of spending time with my friends under the light of sun and moon. It was these same lights which helped to illuminate my understanding of hard work, friendship, and striving for a goal.
I began to think a lot more during these seasons, considering who I was and what exactly it was that I liked. I also began to consider the special place that home took up in my heart; I remember trotting home from school and practice and just taking in the scenery that had been around me for so long. I most vividly recall the intersection of Black Fox Lane and Old Canterlot Pike. Right where the paths meet a creek runs down the hillside and underneath a little bridge toward an open field, yellow with the last cutting of hay. Just beyond the furrows sat an old red apple barn that stood as a relic to times gone by, all framed by the trees that gave this little spot patches of orange color and brown-blue shadow.
This scene served to remind me that while I saw the beauty of the season, I also realized that such beauty was fleeting, soon to be replaced by the cold misery of winter. The artist in me could not cope with this, and in an effort to prevent such suffering I endeavored to develop the professional into my outward garment, a thick coat of practical indifference that could allow the artist to remain warm and secure.
Not far from this pastoral scene sits the cozy cottage of Fluttershy, nestled softly into the surrounding landscape. Fall can be a stressful time of year for Ponyville’s dedicated animal caretaker as she readies the creatures for hibernation, and, with the failure of the acorn harvest, this year is no exception. Whether buying food in the market or taking animals to see Dr. Fauna, anypony can notice the subtle wrinkles and lines that betray the toll on the kind pegasus. Yet every afternoon these features disappear as Fluttershy pauses to enjoy tea with her friends on her patio. Even amid the strain of her profession, she still clings firmly to that sensitive appreciation of others and welcomes them to share the view of the season with her.
Fluttershy has overcome the difficultly inherent in the paradigm that many a foal discovers in their later seasons once they get their cutie mark, that of reconciling who you want to be with who you must be. To some, this occurs naturally, but for others it is a long struggle fraught with reluctance to either accept expression at the cost of vulnerability or accept success at the cost of callousness.
The only place in Ponyville that has not been quiet this week is the post office where Derpy has been hard at work. The weeks before the end of Fall are taxing for mail-mares all across the temperate regions of Equestria as ponies race to send letters and packages before the first snows of winter slow down the mail service. Passing through Derpy’s hooves are several hundred letters, six dozen postcards, four dozen of which are from Pinkie Pie, three parcels from Rarity with Manehattan addresses, two crates of apples for Braeburn in Appleoosa, and an overnight-express box from Mrs. Cake, Sugarcube Corner, Ponyville to Her Majesty Princess Celestia, 10 Celestial Avenue, Canterlot.
Yet walking into the post office from the breezy, leaf-covered street you would never know just how much Derpy has to do based on the genuinely warm smile set beneath bubbly, crossed eyes with which she greets you. She loves her job, but the smell of fresh muffins that drifts through the office lets you know full well of her other loves. Some ponies will invent letters to distant acquaintances just for the excuse to avoid the long lines at Sugarcube Corner and see the grey mail-mare and her muffins, letting the warmth of the pumpkin and chocolate chip treats fortify them against the approaching chill of evening as they walk back home.
Perhaps, as these ponies trot among the lengthening shadows, they see what I saw many years ago after a touching rehearsal of Bach’s “Ich Habe Genug”. Instrument stowed on my back and jacket fastened tight against the wind, I looked up to sky to see the most magnificent canvas that was ever painted; the sky blossomed in bands of orange and violet that deepened to dark blue, while the clouds swirled and wisped about, mixing together shades of blue, gray, and white that floated over the darkening hills. It was a moment where I realized how wonderful is this world that we and so many others inhabit.
But I forgot about this moment. I let other things get in the way. I let the stress of life overcome me and the obsession to get my cutie mark dominate me. Eventually, I did get my cutie mark, one that promised to take me flying to great places and great things. Certainly not what I was expecting, but then I remembered Derpy’s cutie mark and how she has forged a path independent of it, or how the Cutie Mark Crusaders rose above the calling of theirs. Often times who we become is not defined by some cutie mark, or even what we are good at; it is a product of who we have been and what we choose to carry with us into who we will be. This becomes clear to us when, just like the leaves on the trees, the cold strips away the façade of green to reveal the color that was always there underneath. But perhaps most importantly, I remembered that even those who fly must return to land.
Ponyville remains largely unchanged since I was a little foal there, playing in the piles of leaves and singing songs on my walks home amid the rows of foliage. The quiet things of life still happen for ponies in the wood-framed houses with their thatched roofs and the fields of hay next to the old red schoolhouse. The aromas of Sugarcube Corner still beckon to passersby from beyond the frosted windows of sweets, while the residents still celebrate the progression of the season with cheer and care.
I may not know where I am going now, but I do know where I came from. As I breath in the crisp air and let the autumn sun reflect warmly off my fur, I remember how this town has made me who I am today.
That’s the news from Ponyville, where all the mares are resilient, all the stallions are good-natured, and all the foals are beyond talented.