Fall breaking
This is my first time seeing leaves change since moving from Ohio to Florida twenty years ago. Growing up in the Northeast, I don’t remember being particularly interested in the changing of the seasons. I loved summer because it meant long days with my grandparents, away from the social situations that made school painful for me at times. Coming back to Ohio almost half my life later, I have a different perspective on the seasons. I find myself noticing the way the sun shines a bit lower in the sky, and how the wind has a crispness to it the closer winter comes.
One of the things I’ve most enjoyed this fall has been exploring the nearby hiking trails. I didn’t set out with any grand plans, but one day in late August a friend took me to a place she loves where we spontaneously climbed a steep set of stairs to the top of Rocky River reservation and hiked out a tree-lined trail. Since then I’ve been hiking several times each week, learning the unique features of the routes that are becoming familiar. A favorite is the “bird trail,” which is set within several larger trails. From any of the main markers in the park system, you can link up with the bird trail as you come out of the trees to a large open field covered with wildflowers and brush. Meandering through the curves, you can hear the birds singing and the light dancing against the colors of the flowers in a different way each time the wind blows.
The path that was bright with blooms and bees buzzing just a month ago is now quiet, brown, and dry. The chirping has nearly disappeared and the crunching underneath my feet offers a new soundtrack. When I first noticed the glowing beauty of the path back in early September, I thought perhaps I would feel disappointed to see the flowers fall and the colors muted. But instead I have felt a sweet sense of peace. Illustrations abound on the changing of seasons, and how they represent various elements of life, death, and everything that happens in between.
I never knew much about why the leaves change colors and fall to the ground beyond basic science about chlorophyll breaking down. In my curiosity to learn more, I discovered that the leaf stem develops a layer of cells while the colors are changing and its tissues are severed from the tree. Simultaneously, “the tree seals the cut, so that when the leaf is finally blown off by the wind or falls from its own weight, it leaves behind a leaf scar.” That scar is the nubby mark we see on the tree limbs where the leaves have broken off and fallen.
Some weights build up in us until we can bear no more and something has to fall away to the ground, so that new greens can sprout forth. For some of us it has been deep insecurities going back whole lifetimes or wounds from hurts we never let heal until it was too late. For others, an unsurrendering posture toward the risks God calls us to take in using our gifts. The weight of the burden finally breaks us. But in that brokenness, what needs to be shed falls to the ground and is sealed with a scar.
I don’t know what the future has for me, and I know there will surely be more lessons to learn and painful circumstances to navigate. But I am confident that the new things blossoming will result in lasting beauty.
May all that is unforgiven in you,
Be released.
May your fears yield
Their deepest tranquilities.
May all that is unlived in you,
Blossom into a future
Graced with love.
— John O’Donohue
I’ve never felt more at home with myself, and more accepting of myself than I have in this season. I realize those phrases may sound a bit like something out of a self-help bestseller. What I mean is that I am at home with myself because I am finally at home with who God created me to be and the life I’ve lived. Ironically, my dreams for a particular kind of home — one with a husband, children, beautiful spaces for hospitality and holiday entertaining — have not been realized. But that is not the home I most need, or the kind of home I ultimately desire. The love of Christ Jesus is the greatest home I could ask for, and that is what I’m thanking God for each time I walk these trails and remember what has fallen away, and the vibrant greens that will shoot up to fill the branches anew. Isn’t that the hope of winter?