Falling Leaves​

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​At first, they are barely perceptible. A few leaves fall from the trees that have supported them all summer. Then more let go of their accustomed attachments, slowly drifting down to earth. Soon the ground is covered with a beautiful blanket of gold, crimson, copper, and russet-brown.
 
In autumn, the evergreen forests of the Pacific Northwest remain largely unchanged—the Douglas firs, western red cedars, and western hemlocks retaining their greenness through the shortening days and cooling temperatures. But among them stand their deciduous cousins, and they tell a different story. Bigleaf maples turn a gorgeous gold. Vine maples burn orange and red along the edges of forests and streams. Alders fade from green to yellow to brown. Even the introduced birches and ornamental Japanese maples in our gardens participate in this annual affirmation of autumn.
 
We often speak of this time of year as a season of color. But it is also a season of relinquishing and releasing. The leaves no longer cling to the trees. They do not bargain with the branches. They do not plead for more sunlight or warmer weather. When their time comes, they simply let go and fall.
 
There is something sacred about this, but also something unsettling. Falling leaves are not only necessary for the rebirth that happens in spring; they also offer a more difficult teaching: everything that arises will pass away.
 
Falling leaves make this elementary truth visible. In a form we can see, touch, and even smell, they reveal a reality that can be difficult to accept when it touches our own lives, or the lives of those we love.
 
We are brought up to believe that things remain more or less the same—that they have an enduring existence. We make friends with someone, and part of us imagines they will stay the same forever. A child grows into adulthood, and we want to hold on to the little one we remember. A new house becomes a familiar home, and we do not want to leave it. Mostly, we like things to be constant, consistent, and dependable.
 
But then something changes—sometimes slowly, sometimes with startling suddenness. Marriages end. Friends and family members die. We lose a job. We get sick. Our physical capacities diminish. And our hopes for a steady, stable, and secure future are shaken.
 
The truth is that, like leaves, everything is in the process of changing. Being born and dying. Becoming and fading away. Transforming from one thing into something else. As the old adage says, “Change is the only constant.” But more challenging than change itself can be the uncertainty that accompanies it, and the discomfort and distress that often arise in response. Perhaps these difficult emotions are to be expected. Sooner or later, everything changes.
 
It would be soothing to have a spirituality that could protect us from this discomfort and distress. Many of us long for some ultimate understanding that would allow us to know—for certain—what the future holds, or for a benevolent deity to promise that everything will be all right in the end. But, as the falling leaves confirm, life offers no such guarantees. Instead, it offers something different: an invitation to meet change, uncertainty, and the difficult emotions that accompany them.
 
Look at a leaf as it hangs from a branch in October. It is still holding on, but it is already changing. As the daylight diminishes, it produces less chlorophyll and begins to wilt. The channels that carry water into the leaf and sugars out of it begin to close, and a layer of cells grows between the leaf stalk and the branch supporting it. Soon, the leaf will be severed and fall to earth. For now, though, it remains tenuously tethered to the tree.
 
Such a leaf suggests that we do not need to know how long someone will live in order to love them. We do not need to know how long something will last in order to care for it. We do not need assurances of a safe future to live fully in the present moment. In fact, knowing that all things are arising and passing away can deepen our love and appreciation for them.
 
In autumn, a walk in the woods can seem wonderful precisely because we know the colors will not last. The yellow maple leaves appear luminous because we know they will fade. The crimson leaves of the vine maple carry an aching beauty because we know they will soon be gone.
 
Impermanence does not diminish beauty. It gives beauty its poignancy. A sunset can be stunning because it does not endure. A moment of tenderness can be precious because it cannot be preserved. And falling leaves remind us that life never stands still. It is not something we can hold on to, own, or control. We participate in it for a while. And then we, too, pass away, like the leaves.
 
There can be much grief, sadness, fear, and even anger in this. Change can break our hearts and unsettle our minds. Letting go can hurt, and not knowing can be terrifying. When the familiar ground beneath us gives way, we reach for something stable and solid, fighting or avoiding what is happening.
 
Perhaps life’s invitation is not to fight or avoid change, but to learn to live with it more comfortably. To face it and feel it without immediately turning it into a terrible tragedy or a maddening misfortune. To allow grief, sadness, fear, and anger to arise without believing that something is wrong or bad. To recognize that uncertainty does not mean we have failed or are inadequate.
 
Falling leaves do not know where they will land. They let go anyway. Perhaps there is a kind of wisdom in this—not recklessness, and not resignation, but a type of trust. Leaves do not need to know everything. They do not need to understand the future. They simply respond to the conditions that are present: shortening days, cooling temperatures, and weakening connections to their trees.
 
We, too, are asked to live without knowing what will happen next. We can make predictions and plans. We can dream of a better life in the future. We can hope for the best. And still, underneath it all, there is uncertainty. The falling leaves offer no answers. They simply embody what is true.
 
By late October, the forest floor is covered with fallen leaves. The trees stand bare, exposed, and naked. What looked like an enduring, cathedral-like canopy above is now open sky. But the trees are not embarrassed or ashamed because they have lost their leaves. They have not failed. The trees—and the leaves—are simply being true to their nature.
 
Yes, there will be winter, and yes, there will be waiting. For a while, the trees will appear to be dead. But eventually, when conditions are right, buds will swell on branches again, new leaves will emerge, and the cycle will begin once more.
 
The new leaves will not be exactly the same as the old ones. Life does not usually restore itself precisely as it was. It changes. As Heraclitus reminds us, we cannot step into the same river twice: neither the river nor the person entering it is quite the same. We can only meet life as it comes—as it arises and passes away.
 
So when the leaves fall this October, you might pause beneath them. You might watch a single leaf pirouette gracefully in the breeze as it descends and disappears. And you might remember that this, too, is our destiny. We are only here for a while. Everyone and everything we love is only here for a while. Whoever and whatever we cling to is already changing.
 
There is uncertainty because there is change. There is suffering because there is clinging. And there is grief because there is love.
 
Falling leaves ask us to accept not knowing what the succeeding season will bring. They ask us to let the future remain a mystery—and yet, somehow, to keep opening our hearts to whatever happens next.

Events
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All times are Pacific Time

​Tuesday, October 6 4:00 - 5:15 pm In Person
Healing Circles Langley
Mindfulness Meditation & More

Tuesday, October 20 4:00 - 5:15 pm In Person
Healing Circles Langley
Mindfulness Meditation & More
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Tuesday, November 3 4:00 - 5:15 pm In Person - *CANCELLED*
Healing Circles Langley
Mindfulness Meditation & More

Friday, November 6 - Thursday, November 12 In Person
Cloud Mountain Retreat Center, WA
Residential retreat (six nights)
Expanding Perception and ReMembering Who We Are...Slowing Down-Sensing-Responding
Co-taught with Ayya Santacitta
More info and registration

​Tuesday, November 17 4:00 - 5:15 pm In Person - *CANCELLED*
Healing Circles Langley
Mindfulness Meditation & More

Tuesday, December 1 4:00 - 5:15 pm In Person
​Healing Circles Langley
Mindfulness Meditation & More

Sunday, December 13 10:00 - 11:15 am In Person and on Zoom
Unity of Whidbey
Topic: TBD

Tuesday, December 15 4:00 - 5:15 pm
Healing Circles Langley
Mindfulness Meditation & More