Autumn stories

There are stories told in the trees this time of year.

Sometimes I hear a story whispered in the rustling, faded leaves that grow older and more tired in the blowing autumn winds. I watch as the leaves eventually let go of their branches, each one fluttering downwards in a gentle, swaying motion to land silently on the earth below, the marks of a million life experiences etched carefully in the intricately patterned lines that make it unique. This falling sometimes makes me catch my breath with its honesty.  It is a compelling image of life's final dance, reminding me that the spring and summers of my own life cannot last forever, that one day I, too, will feel the sun upon my face one last time and then it will be my turn to fall.  The weight of this truth fills my heart with a sadness, and a tender longing for all of the lovely, fleeting moments of my life that have already come and gone.

More often during this season, though, I hear a story told jubilantly in the vibrant colours of the leaves still holding on among the branches.  The brilliant reds and oranges and yellows that stand out so compellingly against the crisp blue autumn sky tell me that the storms we weather in earlier seasons make us all somehow more richly hued, that as I move through my own seasons of life, I too can become something still more beautiful. These leaves, whose striking colours sing so joyfully of their experience, inspire me to learn their secrets.  I yearn to soak up both the challenging and the wonderful moments as I meet them, always growing in love, in acceptance, in courage, in perspective, so that when my own autumn arrives, I will glow brightly as the leaves do, knowing that I've lived a satisfying, meaningful life.

Wise storytellers, those leaves are.