When I was a little girl, my cousin and I would get the giggles–always together and always right before bed. It was like our last hoorah of the day and it was infectious.
Fall has come to New England and it’s far from my first rodeo in the forest of colors. But this year is different and I’ve been confused as to why the colors seem to be calling to something deeper. I grew up in Appalachia, so maybe nostalgia? But nostalgia seems pale alongside the depth of stirring I feel.
Yesterday I was across the river, music loud, back river road winding, and just as I crested the cemetery’s hill, I saw it. Rows of headstones being cradled in a bowl of gemstone trees. I tried to capture it on film but failed. Sometimes beauty just wants to be appreciated and not memorialized.
And then this morning, again I crested a hill, this time on foot, the rhythm of my morning run hammering out the changes in my own life. Hammering away fear. Reinforcing backbone. And the trees just stood tall and watched it all.
A question that has plagued me since summer is “why now?” Why did stability crumble the month the book released? Why did my words run out when I needed them most? I looked up. And why do these trees shake me so?
And the trees answered:
It’s our last hoorah before bed. The last contagious fit of joy before winter comes.
One by one the leaves will fall and if the leaves were words one tree could fill a book.
I think this is what summer was…The book was the peak of my season. The culmination of all I had to offer the world through words. For now. I won’t lose my voice, it will just be dormant for a time. And when life comes again, it will be a new season. Something to anticipate. Not as beautiful as the colors of fall, but an unfurling of new life.
And this small answer let me enjoy whatever it was that summer had offered.