It’s Autumn, finally. The forest empties herself. Before there’s even a real flash of color the Buckeyes have already dropped all their leaves. They are, after all, the early birds of spring, putting out leaves before any other trees. They have made their gleaming nuts and gone to bed before anyone else. The wild cherry is done just as the black birches start to put on their yellow dresses. Some trees are all about the party that is Fall, and others are already asleep.
Sometimes I think that in Winter I become someone entirely different. Like my Summer self wouldn’t recognize my Winter self. The way a picture of the forest all empty and gray doesn’t resemble at all the forest of summer. Still, the essence of the forest remains, however different it may appear.
I think about all the leaves that are falling. How many leaves in this one valley alone? Too many to count. A whole universe of leaves, making soil.
Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s why I’m writing this. I’m trying to hone in on something. There are so many beautiful things I want to do. I need to focus. I know that focus is the key to success. But focus is hard for me and success seems like a word with a hidden trap. Meanwhile the Sun is caught in the prism hanging in my window and I’m surrounded by little rainbows. The crickets are whirring outside. It’s all rather lovely.
It’s Autumn and the leaves are falling. All that work of leaf-making and sun-eating is done. The trees throw their party and go to sleep. The leaves make the soil. The roots hold the life of the tree until Spring, and I still don’t know what to do with myself. But it’s OK. There’s something held in my roots, something essential that needs no action to be felt. Like a walk in the forest, Summer or winter or bedazzled Autumn, it’s always beautiful if you breathe it in.