I love this time of year.

There's a nip in the air but the harsh winter has yet to set in, which makes walking outdoors ever so refreshing. But what I really love most about this season is the glorious colors everywhere.

Taking a walk hand-in-hand with my youngest daughter, she giggles happily as she jumps on the piles of fallen leaves. We count the trees that have become bare and note those that still carry foliage, tenaciously gripping onto their last few days, or weeks, of life.

But mostly, we exult in the many changing colors. Her favorites are the brighter shades of cherry pink and blood red, while I prefer the richer, deeper mahoganies, auburns and burgundies.

Along the way we observe how entire trees, previously a light shade of forest green have transformed into fiery mixes of orange, rust and dark browns, while others have just as magically become golden and mustard yellow.

In the springtime, we often follow this same path.

Then, too, we observe the colors all around us, in the newly blooming flowers breaking free from their restricting buds. Even now, we still spot a few lingering remnants of petals in vivid pinks and magentas, canary yellows and lipstick reds.

As the spring flowers rupture the embryonic sac of the dark, frozen winter earth, they color our world with their brilliant, primary colors. They remind me of bright-eyed children, full of verve, enveloped in a joie de vivre. They have yet to be disillusioned by any of life's disappointment and they face their days with daring, colorful enthusiasm, and flamboyant joy for the wonders of their world.

But it is the aging leaves in the fall, clinging to life with their last breathe, that truly mesmerize me.

These leaves remind me of a mature individual, made wise by his life experiences rather than his inborn childlike naiveté. He has lived through both the goodness and the darkness of life, yet, he perceives our world in glorious multicolor. His experiences have brought about a transformation where he no longer fits into one dimension of color but has emerged a richer individual, carrying an array of hues and shades, ideas and perspectives, empathy and perceptiveness.

Though the fall colors are more sedated and far less glitzy than the bold and youthful primary colors of spring, to me, they characterize a paradigm of depth and dignity. They symbolize a fuller perspective of right and wrong, a more tolerant view of people and their chosen paths, and broader insight into our world – and our relationship with our Creator.

What is your favorite season? What message does it say to you?

The other day I needed to do some bloodwork for my annual check-up. This time, I decided I'd be conscientious and take care of it on time. At least, semi on time.

Usually, I try to look away — anywhere — to avoid the sight of that gory, red blood. But, that day, I guess I was being brave.

The nurse stuck the needle into my arm and, immediately, a gush of blood filled the container.

But one container doesn't suffice. Sure enough, when the container filled after a few seconds, the nurse had another empty one on the ready… And then another… And another.

I was still being brave, though feeling a tad fainter and growing paler by the minute, but still watching, mesmerized in some strange way.

I was thinking about the blood.

My blood. My deep, red blood. My deep, red blood that is flowing right out of me.

As the nurse replaced the containers, the needle was still stuck in me and I expected the blood to continue dripping out, but as if obediently awaiting the nurse's instructions, it had stopped. Nothing was gushing.

For a second, I almost entertained the horrific thought that there was no more blood left in me! But soon, the new container was properly in its place and the blood continued racing out – at high speed – into the empty container.

Maybe it was my lightheadedness from losing all that blood, but I began to wonder – why? Why the pause in the rush of blood when the nurse changed the containers?

That's when I realized that the needle isn't what draws the blood. Though the needle pricks the skin, the vacuum in the empty container draws it out.

The profundity began to sink in (or was it, again, my increasing lightheadedness making it seem profound?): An empty vessel can draw in with greater intensity than one which is full.

It sounded like a deep lesson for life.

It's not the needle, the probing and searching, that will fill us with meaning and life-giving blood, as much as the emptiness.

Only a person who is empty – not full of himself, not arrogant, but aware of his inadequacies and parts of himself, and his life, that are "empty" – can be more strongly motivated to fill himself with goodness and fullness.

The blood work was over. The concerned nurse observed my pale face and asked me if I wanted to rest for a few minutes.

I'm fine, I assured her. Emptier, perhaps, but ready to become fuller.

Every year, Chabad of Southern Ontario coordinates a spectacular outdoor fireworks show, as part of the festivities for the intermediate days of Sukkot. This year was no different, and a few weeks ago, it was a treat for me to watch.

Hypnotized by the dazzling display of colors and lights against the backdrop of the dark evening horizon, here's what I observed:

1) One flame fired from down here on earth created a huge explosion of light up above.

2) Some firecrackers exploded vertically in a huge single line of fire. Others expanded horizontally across the entire skyline, while others created new offshoot explosions even after they had erupted in the sky. But in every instance, one small act of light set off a chain reaction to a spectacular succession of magnificence.

3) Some of the firecrackers made loud swooshing noises as they exploded. Others were virtually silent. The firecrackers that crackled the loudest didn't necessarily produce the brightest results. Some of the most impressionable effects originated from the quietest firecrackers.

4) No matter how brilliant, bright or beautiful each of the lights sparkled, eventually each grew dim and finally died down. None lasted forever. The point was to enjoy, appreciate and value the beauty of the moment.

5) Each exhibit of light was exquisite in its own right, but the glory of the presentation was how all the lights came together in stunning harmony.

The more I reflected on the fireworks, the more I thought about the commonalities they share with our own lives.

Can you think of any other similarities?

Every once in a while, it's important to kvetch to your boss in order to help him appreciate just how hard you are working. It's a vital tactic so he won't take you for granted, or figure that since productivity comes to you so easily, he can pile even more work your way.

With that in mind, I began kvetching to my superior about my overwhelming workload.

"You're right, Chana, you do a lot," he empathized wisely. (I guess he also studied Psychology 101.) Then, without missing a beat, he countered, "Why don't you try writing shorter pieces for your blog? Write just any thought you had in your day. You could do that, say, two or even three times a week, instead of writing a longer, more involved piece only once a week."

Huh? How did that happen? He is really an astute fellow, so I have no doubt that he grasped very well that doing three times the work would not help lessen my load! But, I guess, once upon a time, he also worked under superiors and identified my tactic. He figured if he offered me this alternative, I'd be content to return to "only" what I was already doing.

But his suggestion made me think. Imagine that, three times a week, you'd write down a novel idea that came to your mind, an idea to share with others.

Not an easy task.

How many of us have three worthy thoughts a week that are appropriate, enlightening and wise enough to impart to others? Since the human being is distinguishable from all other species by being crowned with intelligence and discernment, maybe an even better question to ask is, why don't we?

Now that's something to think about.

And maybe even write about.

There's a well-known anecdote about a teacher who wanted to instill the concept of priorities in his students. Here's how the story goes:

One day, a teacher brought to his classroom a large glass container. He filled it with large rocks and asked his students if it was full. When the students answered in the affirmative, he started to add pebbles to fill in the spaces around the rocks. When he was done, he again asked the students if it was full. When the students replied yes again, the teacher added fine grains of sand to fill in every last crevice in the container. When the students were finally convinced the container was full, the teacher still found room to pour water inside.

"So," asked the teacher, "what have you learned today?"

One eager, young man jumped to his feet and said, "No matter how full your life is, there's always room for more."

"Thank you," said the teacher, "but that is not the point I was making. What I was trying to show was that you have to get the important things in life, the big rocks, in place first. Otherwise, you will never fit them in and all you'll be left with is sand and water."

Then he asked his students to consider what the "big rocks" in their lives were: G‑d, family, friends, health, ambitions, safety, being loved, loving others. The list ran on and varied according to each student.

(Check out a great article by Aron Moss, for a uniquely "Jewish" version and inspirational lesson of this story, by clicking here.)

With this little story in mind, I set out on the mundane task of filling one of my decorative glass vases with colorful potpourri–an assortment of ornamental balls, sticks, rectangles and spirals, all ranging in size.

Like the wise teacher instructed, I began with the largest balls. But to my dismay, once they were all firmly in place, I found the smaller items just couldn't fit. Worse, there were large gaps all along the periphery of my vase, on the bottom, at the sides, and in the crevices where the smaller pieces would have fit nicely had they been put there first, but now simply could no longer squeeze past their larger counterparts.

So I tried shaking the vase a little. That helped for a few very small pieces, but most were helplessly stuck in place.

That's when I realized that while the above lesson works well with a square box or a circular container, it fails in one that has curves. In this case, the lesson literally falls through the cracks. Each piece—big and small–needs to be intentionally put into its rightful place, and the significance of all the pieces becomes evident to form a more beautiful whole.

Real life is kind of like that, too. Sure, it's essential to focus on your priorities. But life is fluid and full of curves–changes, stages, and junctures. And as fast as you figure out the order of one phase, you're already onto the next. An inflexible list of goals or priorities that doesn't accommodate change leaves much lacking. And every once in a while, those "small" goals can sneak up on you, and prove to be just as important—if not more—than the big ones.

Take spirituality and connecting to G‑d. I would call that a real "big rock" in the grand scheme of things. But suppose you were in the middle of your daily talk with G‑d, enraptured in prayer, deep in meditation, when you're interrupted by a loud knock on the door. A little kid who just fell and got a bloody nose is standing there, pitiful, and he's asking for your help. (Hey, it could even be your own kid.) How do you react? "Sorry kid, I'm focusing on my 'big rock's'—one sec, this may even be the biggest rock that I'm putting into place. I'm being really s-p-i-r-i-t-u-a-l. Come back a little later when I'm back to earth."

Or take the ideal of being a selfless and generous person. That's another "big rock" that we're meant to devote a lot of time. But suppose, at this particular instance in your life, you've overextended yourself. Maybe, at this moment, the greatest favor that you can do for others is to take care of yourself. So, is nurturing your own needs a little rock or a real big one? Is replenishing your own energy selfish or selfless?

Small rocks or big ones? Pebbles or sand? It's not that simple.

We need to keep reevaluating at every new bend. And we can't become so inflexible that life's pieces become so stuck in place that they prevent others from fitting in and making a more beautiful whole.

Because, in real life, we don't live in a box.