Let the Leaves Fall as They May

I love this time of year. It brings out a peacefulness, a gentleness in me. There are so many luminous strands to the web of autumn. The parting of great heat. The sensible but slow transition to a cooler, slower fashion of being. The departure of certain birds and the gradually building gathering of honeybees at every little trough throughout the yard where water can be found, and on the porous plastic domes that cover the hummingbird nectar.

Friends come to mind who I long to talk to. Autumn classes ask for my participation, bringing into my memory, into my entire body, the excited anticipation, the joy of a new school year and all the adventures, all the possibilities in me that it would open up, that it would manifest.

This year, I have to hold back from phoning close friends, from signing up for these older adult classes that are giving me the come hither look. There will be no writers workshops for me with my dear friend Eileen. A little more time putting my book to the fore and everything else to the margins.

But I can’t help, nor do I want to, this feeling of beauty and belonging and joy, in love with every spider, every falling leaf, every cry of a crow, every word in the book I’m reading, everything.

I feel so grateful to the land I live on for its perpetual commitment to change. I am grateful for each season as it comes.

Yesterday, in a moment of poor concentration, I made a table wobble and my favourite teapot fall, breaking off its handle. Of course it is an antique and can’t be replaced. Not worth much money, but an enduring pleasure for me. It’s shape, it’s colour, the tiny details, almost of movement, in its glaze, and the many pleasant moments in it’s company.

Unlike the last time I broke a favourite dish, although I regret my actions and my small loss, it doesn’t feel like a problem that needs attention, or a hurt. It's just a little sad; it just is.

I think I have the fall to thank for that.