A Sad Goodbye

We had quite the rain-mixed-with-snow storm the other night. The wind howled and rattled the windows, and the rain lashed against the building, dumping what felt like an unreal and endless amount of rain on the roof. My poor senior cat did her best to hide under the bed (she's a bit chunky so her butt sticks out but as long as her head is covered, she's good), while I actually had moments when I pulled the covers up over my own dhead and politely asked Mother Nature if she could knock it off, "please and thank you." I don't remember exactly what time I finally fell back to sleep, but the next thing I knew, my fur baby had gotten back up on the bed and was telling me in no uncertain terms that light was dawning, the morning commute was racing past the window, and it was definitely time to get up and open a can ... as always she was quite literally starving to hear her tell it.

I threw back the curtains and was met with a sad sight, one that I had hoped I wouldn't see for at least a few more weeks. My beautiful autumn trees were bare. Most of the reds, golds, oranges, and muted browns were in piles at the base of the trees, while others were plastered on roofs, windows, and cars. Seeing the bare branches against a still leaden grey sky was much like being at a funeral. Luckily there was still some color to be seen on the distant hills, perhaps protected from the worst of it by the towering pine trees that surround them, but all up and down the block, and in everyone's yard, the leaves had given up the fight an were gone.

At that moment, my first thought was sadness for the trees themselves. I knew that scientists have proven that trees talked to each other (and to us if we know how to listen), so I wondered if they were lamenting the loss of their beautiful leaves, or complaining about the weather and the coming winter, but as I looked at the silent beauty of their bare sculptures, I somehow knew that they were so much better at this sadness and loss stuff than we humans are. 

Humans have turned complaining into an art form, especially around the subjects of aging and change. The hair turns grey (or starts falling out), the waistline goes, we don't think we can take one more winter up here and wonder why in heaven we haven't relocated to Arizona yet? Trees just stand there and accept it. Sure, their beauty might be gone in human terms, but those leaves had a job to do: to turn into mulch and feed the trees for their long winter sleep so they can return healthy and green in the spring. Then they will provide homes for the birds and squirrels, havens for insects, and shade for the humans who will then be complaining about how hot it is here when just a few months before they were complaining about the cold. Yet the trees continue to stand there, doing what they are here to do, probably laughing at the silly humans because if we would just stop complaining and listen, we'd learn that there is something to love and to learn in every season of the year, and in every season of our lives. You just have to stop long enough to see it ... and listen to your hearts.

And so it is.