Without a doubt, my strongest (and one of the fondest) childhood memory is the multi-sensory experience of walking through the autumn woods, trees blazing with color, leaves crunching underfoot and the sweet, earthy smell of humus filling me up. (My second strongest memory is being handed over by parents to clowns at the circus, but that’s another column.) This week, the thermometer on our back porch topped out at 101F on Thursday. Everyone I talked with was divided between the opposing positions that we were either simply experiencing the usual late blooming “summer in Los Angeles” or it was “the catastrophic effects of global warming.” Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn WHY it was so hot. Just that it was. In mid-October. Somewhere buried deep within my mongrelized DNA, a simple, clear message was created and distributed to my brain – Something is Wrong. Yes, I understand much of the world exists without four distinct seasons. And since the age of fifteen, I’ve lived in every time zone in the United States, much of it out of the country’s regions that boast all four seasons. I’ve been gone long enough that it would be reasonable to expect this seasonal response to have faded. And yet, it’s stronger than ever. Why? Even at only eight or nine years old, autumn made clear to younger me I was connected to the earth’s – and life’s – major cycle of birth/death/renewal. While I certainly couldn’t articulate it back then, during the fall I knew I was part of something much bigger and more profound. A ha. Methinks there’s a clue here. Yes, I miss the season’s crisp air, the smell of leaves, and apple cider. But what’s missing during this time of year is that...