Fall is coming! Yesterday, I hiked from Snowbasin to the Ogden Canyon overlook. About a mile in, a breeze rustled the tops of the Aspen trees. Stopping to listen to the clap of the tiny green leaves, I looked up to see a golden yellow leaf floating toward me. I honored its journey by watching it all the way to the ground. When it arrived, it simply laid itself down in the gentle embrace of others that had gone before it. I stood for a moment, quieted by the beauty of the leaf’s passage.
Watching that leaf reminded me of the Carrie Newcomer song, “Leaves Don’t Drop (They Just Let Go).” The idea of letting go has been my constant companion as I work on my memoir. As I contemplated this on my hike, it occurred to me to consider the season upon us as one of release. What, I wondered, am I holding onto that no longer serves me? How can I coax those thin stems to loosen their grip so that they might drift peacefully to the ground?
As it turns out, trees themselves give some insight into the process and importance of release. According to Britannica, trees encourage leaves to drop by activating hormones that start the process of separating leaf from tree. Then, the trees slowly close off pathways that supply nutrients to the leaves until each one can separate from its branch without hurting the tree.
Rather than a cruel process of cutting off life, trees go through this natural cycle to protect themselves, and, indirectly, the leaves themselves. If leaves never let go, then their cells would rupture in cold winters, killing them and leaving their trees unable to absorb nutrients through photosynthesis. What’s more, this natural process allows the tree to drop diseased and damaged leaves in preparation for regrowth in the Spring.
By refusing to shed the (metaphorically) diseased, damaged, and unnecessary parts of our lives, we close off the potential for new growth and fresh starts. Before leaves let go, they turn brilliant reds, yellows, and oranges. While science tells us that this happens because of restricted pigmentation, I like to think of the display as a bright pop of life just before the leaf surrenders to the greatest journey of its life.
In this season of release, I’ll look to the trees for inspiration. I’ll encourage that which no longer serves me to let go by nourishing other parts of my life so that we may separate slowly and gently without leaving gaping wounds. As I shed what I no longer need, I hope that each part goes in a dazzling display of light, reminding me of the beauty of making way for something new.
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