leaf fall living
Everyone deserves a room with a view. I remember Anne Frank writing about the chestnut tree she could see from a window in the Secret Annex. She said something in her diary about how important it is to be able to go to nature to find God. I read her words when I was a girl who was uncertain about almost everything, but that, I could believe. The golden leaves of autumn are singing the holy song that Anne sought. Oh, how we need that song now.
How is it that my eyes have landed here to witness the changing of the seasons, autumn as effervescent as fairy dust and just as fleeting. And what do the hues of oaks and locusts have to teach me as they shine against the persistent pines, cedars, firs and manzanitas, all offering shelter, food and rootedness that can thrive in rising elevations, poor soil and little water.
From this view, the outer and inner converge. Suddenly six decades seems a swift reply to Life’s invincibility. Suddenly my story becomes a barer branch, a golden leaf, a wistful sky. I wonder what the forest feels under its feet at the feathering leaf fall, a spilling multitude, sudden cover until winds and waters and creatures unsettle the surface and play with the lightness of change.
