Photo courtesy of Craig M. Brandt
Snow has fallen on autumn leaves. Fading, still mutely attractive, I see the leaves reaching. "What are you reaching for," I ask—already having the answer. Their chemical promptings have been toward the burning of leaves raked and piled, the match lit, air igniting, and dryness consumed. The cooled ashes might mingle with soil or raked thin, blow up and down the street. "Leaves, your renewal will take months," I tell them. Then winter comes.
By March, the first buds, bark brown, will appear on the deciduous trees, tree eyes watching that will open and grow until surroundings are crowded again by green color. And summer is reached.
My life has been an unwinding for two years—the writing of a book, done. Daily thoughts spoke, Let go. Let go more. Furniture, storage cabinets, and appliances waited on the front porch for the men I gave my things to, bringing tempos for transport. The families' older ones, and the young children, will enjoy a broad chair, with its strong supporting back, and its smooth wooden arms for all size hands. I smiled at the men as each tempo left—my smile returned.
For months I have been reaching for a return to my home country, America. I am still reaching. But I remember the leaves . . .
My realization is, "As we are changing, attuning to the patterns of nature offers us awareness of our fellow travelers in their changing."