When Leaves Fall, Let Them Be (Leaves Are Meant to Fall)

Upon Observation

Leaves don’t have a direction; they simply release themselves, letting go, even trusting, perhaps, the direction inherent in all of life as we filter and sift through what was, what is, and what will be.

Most Beloved

Middle Fall

Chilly Morning, but gloriously warm afternoon

I am in the quiet of the afternoon where, for a change, I do not hear the frantic whine and whirring of lawn tools and lawn mowers. I love this peaceful time. I wish I could find a way to have this all the time.

Yes, spring and summer bring beautiful colors after winter’s monochromatic tones. But yikes! The noise-volume from the mowing hurts my ears. And fall? Don’t even get me started. Leaf-blowers everywhere and all at once. Too loud for my delicate senses.

October ripe and crunching with leaves, gold and jeweled tones, fluttering of leaves scattering them and sending them airborne to wherever the zephyr leads. Leaves don’t have a direction; they simply release themselves, letting go, even trusting, perhaps, the direction inherent in all of life as we filter and sift through what was, what is, and what will be.

Evenings are darkening quickly now, and with earlier sunsets, earlier to bed and sleeping (most of the time) later. I am not ready for winter, but I am never ready for winter. Too drab, too dreary, too long, and too bitterly cold.

This summer? The summer of too much: too much rain, too much heat, too much wet, too little color. And fall? Up until this past week: too warm, confused flowers blooming now—rhododendrons; and finally today? Today, cold rain and sky slate-gray for as far as I can see.

I am curled up sleeping, tucked in the sheepskin on the fireplace hearth. Ensconced in what is warming and comforting. Real animal fur (sheepskin) from Iceland, which is quite warm as it keeps Icelandic sheep protected from the harshness of winter.

I can only imagine the theatrics and goings on with the garden cats. My luxury accommodations inside the big house afford me indulgences that the garden cats can only dream about. I am she who is Most Beloved. And so rest I in absolute contentment; my respite here, fireside. I blinky-blink my eyes just a wee bit, then drift back into slumber, succumbing to the whim of a cold day that lulls us all into a sleepy state.

March is always iffy—sometimes as cold as February, but for the most part, the temperatures begin rising. Daffodils poke their sleepy heads out of the warming earth, crocus bloom, birds begin to sing again, and the air feels noticeably different. There is an energy, a vibrancy, to spring. An awakening. All things mother earth awakening and rising from sleepy quarters where they wintered over.

We winter over, too. Tuck in, pull out more blankets, stay cozy and warm indoors, and to an extent and for a brief time, enjoy resting between the seasons. Spring will call us outside again, but during the deep cold of the winter months, we hole up here, sleeping more, eating warm food (not too much), finding a slower rhythm to all parts of our day.

A Few Snapshots of the Garden Cats

Most Affectionately Yours,

Most Beloved