My Autumn

Trees. I love them in every season. In spring, they’re in the process of becoming. Everyone’s sprouting buds and looking like they have an equal shot at a decent set of leaves. Such burgeoning energy and so much potential. In summer, they’re all busting out—green and lush and profuse—but it’s hard to tell one from the next. In autumn, however, some real differentiation starts to happen. The golden yellows, the mordant reds, the soul-lifting combination that turns to amaranth pink. Autumn is the time to see each glorious tree in all its individuality.

I am in my autumn. It is middle age, yes. But I am also at my most differentiated. My most ‘me’ to-date. I know autumn can’t last. Winter will come. And it will bring its own stark beauty. In winter, the finery is gone. We see what each tree is made of – its unique architecture, its bones. There is no more hiding. But if you’ve ever gazed at the black lattice-work of branches against a backdrop of snow and cloud, you know this: There is something sacred in that nakedness, something worth loving.