Learning from the Trees

I feel like a tree in autumn. Not a tree blazing away in reds and yellows as the chlorophyll level in its foliage plummets, but a tree in the leaf dropping stage. I have been dropping leaves for years now, and the pace is accelerating. Here are some of the leaves I’ve been shedding:

–Names. Of friends and acquaintances, of authors and their books, of composers and their works, of painters and their paintings. Of plants, the nine muses, and the twelve apostles. Of the five proofs of the existence of God. (Many of these names will pop up inopportunely when I’m trying to think of something else.)

–Phone numbers of family and friends, and occasionally when under stress, my own.

–The ability to formulate well-structured sentences on the spur of the moment, with relative clauses and all the trimmings, and without stammering or searching for words.

–Thick hair.

–Strong nails.

–Muscles. I have no idea where they went.

–Multitasking, once crucial to my survival as a mother and a professional.

–The ability to hear high-pitched sounds and thread a needle without recourse to assistive technologies.

–The ability to walk one and a half miles in three-inch heels while carrying a briefcase full of books.

–The ability to merge onto a four-lane highway without fearing for my life.

And on and on.

Not that all my leaves have fallen. A few still cling to my branches. I can still, for instance, put my hands flat on the floor upon arising in the morning, and carry the occasional heavy flower pot indoors when there is a threat of frost. I can recite the names of the three Fates, and sing the Nicene Creed in Latin–both extremely useful skills. And I still get (most of) the New Yorker cartoons. But I had better not attach to these frail remaining leaves, because as the days grow shorter the smallest breeze will carry them away, one by one.

So I look to the trees for guidance. I admire how they manage to remain calm as the wind blows away their leaves, gradually at first and then in great drifts until they are all gone. They don’t grouse or grow bitter or try to hold on—well maybe the oaks do for a while, but not for long. They just stand and bend in the gale, waiting for stick season and then the snow.

That’s what I’m aiming for as stronger and more frequent gusts carry away what is left of my foliage: to stand as calmly as possible, bending as needed, and wait peacefully for the coming winter.