I delight in the beauty of fall and sense the leaves’ plight. I feel akin to their journey; a tethered, tattered flag flapping crisply through the days I have had. I wave proudly as I surf the wind, shaking in crisp moments that move through me faster than I can handle.
Aging gives you a sense of how the years have worn you down and unraveled your edges. It leaves you looking at what you are now and imagining what you used to be. It might even leave you feeling like a gust will win out and you will let go, floating and fumbling off into the distance, tumbling uncontrollably away from the place you had been secured to for so long.
The wind has ripped through me for decades. I fear letting go as much as staying tethered to something and finding myself torn apart. I have tears through my being which makes my whole self flap at different rates; never fully on one plane.
It would be silly if, all year long, the trees craved their glorious fall colors and the moment of letting go. They need to stand naked through the winter, dormant and hibernating for spring. That stoicism turns into tiny buds popping and twisting open on their uplifted branches. Soon blooming becomes full-blown flourishing, and shade is provided as well as camouflage for the birds. When summer slowly turns to fall, the leaves call for a celebration of life and color that will soon be released. The rustle shifts from branches to underfoot as we shuffle through what once was so fluid and now crackles at the touch.
We, too, live through all the days, creating a circle that ripples through our being—all the life and love of a single year traced in the belly of our existence. It is a momentary dance, entirely its own and part of a whole.
Some years leave bigger marks. If you cut me open, you would see the thick rings of 8, 13, 19, and 34. I’m sure there would be other notable marks of me standing firm against the wind, the fire and ice that thinned my skin, and the days where my hair wrestled in a light breeze. All of it is encapsulated in my being, all of it is calling me home to myself. My heart still longs for moments I could not stay in because the cycle spun through me and kept me moving on. But they are there, recorded in the center of my being.
I am at the end of another fall, lightly letting go of the beautiful orange I’ve held onto for so long. The last leaves are dropping in a milestone year. They flutter in the sunlight, floating gracefully to the ground. Soon I will be barren, with only my branches to support. Soon I will begin again the process of blooming and growing full.