Fall, Without Looking Back

Turning, falling, landing, crumpled, touching, lifting, swirling, changed. 

Autumn, with its triumphant beauty, is one of my favorite seasons.  Yet on occasion, namely the gray and chilly days, I feel as if I’m falling with my mind swirling, heart crumpled and mood brittle – just like the leaves. I'm captivated by the brilliance, yet wistful. 

I know that I’m not alone.  I also see it in my husband.  Even with the joys of the current season of our lives with an active 15-year-old in marching band and an 11-year-old on the go, we’re melancholy.  We look longingly at families with little ones and lovingly remember outings to the pumpkin patch with hay rides and caramel apples too big for little mouths.  We recently found ourselves without kids at a fall festival.  With homework and potential embarrassment of being seen with parents, we did not have our favorite company in tow.  Just like the leaves, they change so quickly. I catch myself languishing in memories, as I try to hold on to my “little ones;” for in doing so, life feels easier.   

Change is certain and like the seasons, I must acquiesce and let life take its course. Yet it is hard. The changes are not just related to Friday nights waiting to resume the carpool at an hour in which, not so long ago, my kids would have been sound asleep.  It’s also in the tweaks and adjustments we’re still making with a relatively recent move and in all of the little transitions of every day. The leaves are not looking back at the trees wishing they were green again.  Why was I?  In pushing back on the changes, I realized that the crux of my problem was that I was raging against the unknown. I feel like a fraud.  Although I claim to have faith, I’ve been faking it more often than I care. I have my moments of trust, but had not battled against tomorrow the way I have today.  It’s the unknown of the big and little: my next career opportunity - yet to manifest, friends fighting cancer, aging parents, the ramifications of a government shutdown, overwhelming injustices, grief, the happiness and health of my family, and of course, what to have for dinner.   

I look down at the computer, bills in the mail, my sleeping son who now looks like a man, the phone as it rings with news on the other end, praying hands, and a sink filled with dirty dishes.  Head down in work and arched looking back. I distract, so as not to face the upheaval inside.

Recently a friend and I took a bike ride on a spectacular fall day.  It was to be on a paved bike path, but our access point was beyond a steep incline. Head down, I focused on the pavement; for when I looked at the street ahead, it seemed too difficult.  I fought feelings of inadequacy and the desire to quit.  Head down, I struggled. 

With my friend looking back, I knew my pride wouldn’t let me fail. I labored, and at the summit, tried to resume a normal breathing pattern, grateful for my friend.  If she wouldn’t have been there, I would have given up.  I realized that when I looked up and saw her, I had the strength to continue and when I looked back, it hindered my progress and left me discouraged.  We rode along the path for many miles with me lagging behind, deep in thought, but enjoying the journey.  It was during a water break that I had an epiphany.  I stopped and looked up.  The trees were breathtakingly beautiful, but beyond that, the sun was dazzling. It cut through the leaves with a brilliant beam and I felt the same reassuring strength I had experienced earlier on the ascent with my bike. The knowing beam reminded me that I was not alone in my struggles; in fact, I was being led. By embracing the sun, the leaves had changed from green to brilliant hues, maybe the same could be true for me.

Perhaps momentary shakiness in faith, just like the cascading leaves seeking terra firma, is to be expected.  If I pause from all of my distraction, my bent head would come up and notice that the path before me is illuminated.  In doing so, the guiding light would again be visible and I could find strength for this journey that although steeped in change, is rich in blessings.  The brittleness associated with trying to see the unknown would melt away and I'd be grateful for the bounty of the season around me.  With head tilted upward, I could fall gently into the arms of trust, knowing that all will be well, and I'd never need to look back.