The Soul Dancing Joyfully

“One autumn day I was in a park and I looked at a very small beautiful leaf, it’s colour was almost red. It was barely hanging on the branch, nearly ready to fall down. I spent a long time with it and I asked the leaf a number of questions. I found out the leaf had been a mother to the tree.

“We usually think that the tree is the mother and the leaves are just children, but as I looked at the leaf I saw that the leaf is also a mother to the tree. The sap that the roots take up is only water and minerals, not sufficient to nourish the tree, so the tree distributes the sap to the leaves, and the leaves transform the rough sap into an [enriched] sap with the help of the sun and air and then send it back to the tree for nourishment. Therefore, leaves are also a mother to the tree….

“I asked the leaf whether it was scared because it was autumn and the other leaves were falling. The leaf told me, “No. During the whole spring and summer I was very alive. I worked hard and helped nourish the tree, and much of me is in the tree. I am not limited by this form. I am the whole tree, and when I go back to the soil, I will continue to nourish the tree. As I leave this branch and float to the ground, I will wave to the tree and tell her, ‘I will see you again very soon….’

“And after a while I saw the leaf leave the branch and float down to the soil, dancing joyfully. Because as it floated it saw itself already there in the tree. It was so happy. I have a lot to learn from the leaf because it is not afraid — it knew nothing can be born and nothing can die.”

— Thich Nhat Hanh

Okay, so I am a lifelong New Englander. And there’s nothing New Englanders like more than fall foliage. Sometimes we roll our eyes at the leaf peepers from away who are clogging up the roads. But don’t let that fool you. We are out there peeping at the leaves, too.

A lot of us are anyway.

Years ago, though, I met a woman who told me the autumn leaves always made her feel sad. They made her think of death, she said, and that cast a pall over everything. Maybe that was because she was a transplant from away. Or maybe it was because she was seeing and stating the obvious: that last glorious burst of color is actually a leaf in its death throes.

To be perfectly honest, fall foliage makes me ponder death, too. But that doesn’t cast a pall over everything for me. Instead, the foliage reminds me to appreciate the beauty that is here, now. I remember one particular cluster of maples about a mile from my old house that was about as beautiful a stand of trees as I have ever seen. Every fall, whenever I would pass those trees, I would say to myself, “I wonder how many more falls I will get to see those trees.” Meaning, how many years do I have left? And I was young then! In my thirties! With that wondering, I would drink in the miracle of color on display, thinking, “Look! Look now!” Unbeknownst to me, my chances of seeing those trees burst into color were limited not by my lifespan, but by our moving far away.

Even without that specific stand of trees to spark my thoughts, however, I still find that autumn ushers in a chance to reflect on the life cycle. Each season does that in its own way: spring with its newness and birth, summer with its unfolding and blossoming, autumn with its harvesting and dying, winter with its resting and death. I like that. And if you pressed me as to why, I would have to say there is beauty in both the impermanence of life and in its resolute, ongoing recreation.

The kind of foliage I most like to see is a mixture of contrasting colors — the still-living greens mixed with the reds, oranges, yellows, and browns of the dying leaves. While it is true that I love bright, contrasting colors in general, I also love the inherent symbolism in such a display of leaves: the young and the old together, the living and the dying together, the ebb and flow of the life cycle.

Once, when my son was very small, he asked me that inevitable question that little ones ask of their elders: “Why do people die, Mommy?” I remember telling him that if everyone lived forever, eventually the earth would run out of room. When the old die, I said, it helps to make room for the young coming up behind them. When I think of that long-ago conversation, I am reminded that vulnerable herds of animals often travel with their young in the middle of the pack and the elders on the outside providing protection. If predators attack, the elders die first and the young might be spared. Life longs for itself. Thus, life has evolved in ways that propel itself forward.

I am an elder myself now. Most of the photographs in this post are over eight years old — taken during a trip to Debsconeag Lake Camps on Fourth Debsconeag Lake in Maine. I remember swishing through piles of dry, crackling leaves as I hiked various trails during our long weekend there. In particular, I searched for the kinds of contrasting colors that make my heart sing. But the leaves you see in these pictures here? They are now dirt on the forest floor, decomposed to the point of leaving no visible sign of their previous existence. Nonetheless, they are nourishing the next little living things to emerge from the dark soil. Their individual bright hues can no longer be seen, but the new budding life they feed is now bringing its own beauty to the world.

There is rightness to the life cycle. Even beauty. Saying that, I do not intend to minimize the chasms of grief we feel when our beloveds die, however. Our losses are real. Our broken hearts are real. Nor do I intend to make light of people’s fear of dying. It’s normal to fear the unknown and the potential pain involved in getting there. I simply say that, for me, meditating on the life cycle, including deepening my awareness of death, enhances my appreciation of life and helps me to live each day more fully. I think of how, for good or ill, my words and actions affect the world around me, and, thus, will contribute to life even after I die.

And so, each fall I try to remember the lesson of the falling leaf. So much that little leaf can teach me! Do not be afraid. Life continues on. And, by choosing my words and deeds with care and love, I can nurture the life that comes after me, even when I am gone.

Love,

Sylvia