It’s that time of year … again. Fall. So many mixed emotions. Sad for the summer to be over. Excited for pumpkin spice lattes. And maybe time to start decorating for Christmas. But one thing we can all agree on is that it’s uniquely a season of change. Change in the weather of course, and a change in our daily routine. With a sense that the year is rushing away from us, also a need to be sure we’ve accomplished what we wanted. Up here at my farm, Lambs Hollow, the changes are stark. A switch is flipped on Labor Day and the leaves start to turn, and it no longer feels like pool weather even if the temperatures are still warm. I think back to previous autumns at Lambs Hollow, and see the rest of the year playing out in front of me. Familiar, predictable and a bit melancholy.

For more than three decades I’ve spent my weekends away from the city and the madding crowd at Lambs Hollow, which had previously been a farm for almost 200 years in Northwest New Jersey, nestled among the rolling hills, horse farms and small towns. Yes, New Jersey. You should visit sometime. It’s not just Newark. It’s been my place of refuge. And now that I’m contemplating retirement, its time is coming to an end. Many of you share the dread of having to close up for winter. There’s a lot to do. And I’ll admit I’m tired of the work—and the cold. It may surprise many of you, but I’ve come to appreciate the warmth and relaxation of Florida. I know, so cliché. And surprising to me too. But while I love the peacefulness of Lambs Hollow, the ease and accessibility of Florida is hard to beat. So, today I wander around the farm with Tobey this chilly early fall morning with the knowledge that this will be my last. By this time next year, it’ll belong to someone else. Tobey won’t be happy; he loves strolling the fields sniffing for critters. Chasing iguanas in Florida isn’t the same. 

In addition to great beauty what I see are chores to be done, expenses to be paid and a steep 18th century staircase waiting to get me. It’s time. Time to shake things up. Time to move on. Time to simplify, and make things easier. To do new things, and to create a new norm. I’ve been here for 35 years, crafted an existence that worked for me for a very long time. But I can’t escape the feeling that I need to break out of my routine, not be captive to the place and the obligations it brings.

How do you process all those years of memories? Of a place I’ve lived longer than any other? Every corner is familiar, every view, every tree. I’m only just acknowledging the pending reality of leaving. What do I need to do to pay sufficient tribute to how well this place has served me, and supported me? Is it enough to just go through the motions of the season? I want to turn it over in optimal condition, to show the next owners how it needs to be kept. But I have no way to convey how special it was/is to me. I’m starting to clean it out. Thirty-five years of stuff, which at some point I thought was important. There’s no room in Florida to keep anything. A few boxes of photos, some financial records. What else is there that I haven’t already replicated down there? Surprisingly little, so the purge goes on. And for every item I find to throw out, another memory springs up.

While I had hoped for a growing sense of freedom, what I’m getting is a sense of loss. I guess this is to be expected and the price to pay for change. I know it’s what needs to happen and I’m left searching for how to properly close the chapter. I want to close it with satisfaction, a sense of accomplishment and, hopefully, only a little remorse. 

Dr. Blecher is an attending surgeon at Wills Eye Hospital.