feet on path with leaf, fall leaves, acceptance, accepting nature of things
Marisa Donnelly

The leaves fade and fall from the tree outdoors my residence constructing. Even within the seventy diploma warmth, they shrivel like its chilly, drying into their oranges and browns and mixing with the late afternoon breeze. And I can’t assist however assume that’s foolish, like the entire world is in sync, wanting to slot in, to fall.

Even when the temperature, the timing’s not fairly proper.

This time of 12 months at all times makes me wish to curl right into a ball and take heed to the sound of vehicles honking, the wind gathering its breath, these leaves being crunched underfoot, the clinking of chilly beers, and the laughter of youngsters—all sounds of my adolescence, slipping by way of the cracks in my bed room window, beckoning me to twirl my curly hair and dangle my legs from the open sill, watching lives unfold throughout me—wanting, so desperately to develop up, to hitch them.

Autumn has at all times given me a mixture of feelings—a peaceful, a longing—and but I’ve at all times discovered myself someplace within the center. Learning to just accept the push whereas additionally slowing down. To have a good time my youth, whereas nonetheless craving that sense of freedom I bear in mind so vividly at fifteen, batting my eyelashes on the neighbor boys on their skateboards simply outdoors that window. I had at all times needed to leap, to observe them, to run down the streets barefoot and rosy-cheeked. And but, I stayed. Rooted to that sill. Understanding then, like in all issues, change would come. It simply wasn’t my time.

And even now, because the leaves fall, I’m nonetheless studying to benefit from the seasons for what they’re. A shift within the rhythm of issues. A fade from the countless summer season days to mornings, waking in chilly darkness. A quiet that not even the birds can bear.

And but, the browns and oranges and yellows and sizzling chocolate and chilly fingertips remind me that there’s magnificence in the whole lot. And I’m nonetheless making an attempt to grasp what meaning.

I’m nonetheless making an attempt to grapple with the brokenness of our world, the insufferable heaviness that every of us carries, and the way, typically it feels inconceivable to shoulder that weight. I’m nonetheless making an attempt to fathom how we will see our variations—painted on our pores and skin, etched upon our hearts—and but, we discover ourselves refusing to consider that beneath these outer layers, we are literally the identical.

I’m nonetheless making an attempt to make sense of people that harm simply to harm and the way I can go on celebrating life when there may be dying settling like mud in all of the cracks round me.

I’m nonetheless making an attempt to reconstruct myself from the ache of my previous, accepting that I can’t erase elements of my story, however I can write a brand new chapter. And possibly that’s step one in therapeutic, letting go.

I’m nonetheless reminding myself that life doesn’t keep the identical, regardless of how exhausting I strive, regardless of how white-knuckled my palms are, regardless of how rooted I used to be to that windowsill.

Ultimately, my time got here—to bop, to sing, to sip beers on the neighborhood swing set, howling just like the teenaged animal I used to be at that superb, fearless moon. And ultimately, the temperatures will drop, beckoning these few remaining leaves to hitch the remainder—to crumble, to interrupt, to reconstruct, to make new.

And isn’t that the case with the whole lot? That our time will come? The time for the leaves, for the brokenness, for the therapeutic, for the load to shift and carry us, mild and paper-thin, within the breeze. The time for darkness to settle within the morning hours, for the seasons to tug us away from what feels acquainted, reminding us that nothing stays the identical.

And possibly that’s stunning. To know that we’re by no means fastened to 1 place, one area, one spot on this earth. To know that the very nature of issues is to be misplaced and misplaced—the kid along with her lanky legs out the window, the one inexperienced leaf not fairly prepared, then swept up within the chilly breeze, rushed like the whole lot else—studying to start once more.

So possibly it’s okay that the air drips with humidity and ocean salt, however the leaves nonetheless flip brown and orange. Perhaps it’s okay that the autumn months remind me of each peace and chaos, as I attempt to perceive who I’m as a lady, not a lady. Perhaps it’s okay that I don’t have the appropriate phrases for all of the darkness that’s spinning wildly round me as a result of regardless of my tongue-tied mouth, there may be nonetheless a lot magnificence.

As a result of identical to the seasons, we fall, we develop, we tumble, we alter, we start once more.

And possibly this course of begins with understanding that our time will come. That we’re okay, proper the place we’re. And whether or not it’s longing or concern or not understanding what’s going to occur subsequent that retains us on this place, we be taught to be just like the leaves. And let the wind take us. TC mark