This fall, we spent a rainy afternoon exploring the Seattle Arboretum. I was stunned by the flaming Japanese maples, displaying their glorious red hue amidst shades of yellow, orange and amber foliage. The colors were striking against the backdrop of the gray Seattle sky—something we don’t see every day. Shiny leaves, wet with rain, their sheen another example of nature’s perfection in autumn.
On our walk to the visitor’s center, I overheard a young couple lament, “Oh, it’s so sad that this won’t last,” said the woman. Her husband was quick to add, “ Yeah, by next week the rain will knock these leaves to the ground and it will be over.”
On the surface, autumn seems to be about endings and signals that something is over, and perhaps out of grasp. But, for me, it seems to be more about letting go.
In the fall, the school bus in my neighborhood reminds me that my kids are now grown. How quickly their years seemed to vanish. It seems like only yesterday when I walked them to the bus stop, each wearing a backpack and carrying a lunch box. Our loyal yellow lab, Ursa, was often in the lead. She would climb the stairs of the bus ahead of everyone, to collect a dog biscuit from the driver, while the kids climbed around her and giggled.
Now, on mornings when the bus passes by, I watch it slow from my kitchen window and I remember how I used to feel. Sometimes, when my parents used to visit, we would walk to the bus stop in the afternoon and wait for the kids to return home. They would barrel out of the bus and greet their grandparents with excitement and smiles and stories from their day. “ Guess what, Nana? We saw a fox cross the road today.” “ I lost my lunch box in the lunch bin today.” “ I have to write a story about my family for homework.” Now, when the bus drifts passed our stop and I happen to be home, I think of my mom, who has since passed away, and I still see her holding the hand of a 6 year-old and walking up the road to the house.
On weeks when the kids were away, the school bus meant something else. As a blended family, our schedule of “every other week” meant that at times the house was quiet when the kids were at their other houses, their other lives. On these weeks, the bus would drive by slowly, hesitating at the mailboxes for a few moments before heading down our road. There was a lot of going back and forth, and something deep inside of me still hopes that it wasn’t too hard on them. It took a long time to accept what I couldn’t change and to let go.
As the leaves on the new Hawthorn tree we planted in our yard turned an orange-yellow hue this fall, I noticed how quickly the season changed and I felt something shift inside as the days grew shorter and the light began to wane by 4 pm. The other day after work the dogs let me know it was time to go outside to do what they love most— fetch a ball. They seemed oblivious to the early darkness as I threw the ball into the twilight and watched them navigate by sound and scent. I remember feeling thrown off course as I threw each ball into the darkness. Maybe this also has something to do with following their lead and just letting go.
The instructions from the Tree Farm where we purchased our Hawthorne tree in the spring reminds us to water this tree 3 times per month during the winter. The leafless tree, while appearing to be dormant, can still quench its thirst and store water for growth in the spring when the ground thaws and the first buds appear. From all outward appearances, the tree drops its leaves and appears to simply let go, although letting go often feels far from simple.
A few weeks ago, I lost my dear Uncle Richard, who passed away at 87 years of age, leaving behind an apartment filled with books, records, and an upright piano. While his memory lingers in the stories he shared and the conversations we often had by phone, I know his last few days were about letting go.
Sometimes when I find myself hanging onto a memory, a feeling, even a fear or doubt or a disappointment, I ask, “ Is this helping, hurting to holding me back?” The answer isn’t always obvious and at times it takes courage to even ask the question. Letting go seems to have its own ebb and flow and a place in between when we may choose to hold on. Holding onto memories that comfort, experiences that changed us, maybe even opened our hearts. This last year, I chose to hold onto memories of my mother, the sound of her voice, the shape of her hands, her patience and loving kindness.
Letting go isn’t about giving in or forgetting. It is about noticing when something consumes you. Letting go is about giving your mind a rest. It’s about re-framing the internal dialogue you are having with yourself about something that has happened or something that hasn’t. It’s about loosening your grip on your point of view, perspective and position and making room for other ways of seeing and experiencing something and how you feel about it.
What I’ve come to learn about myself is that letting go is about choosing where to focus my attention, and noticing where I am holding on. Am I thinking about something that has already happened? Trying to change it or lamenting the circumstances? Or am I day dreaming about something that hasn’t happened yet? Replaying a conversation? Staying locked in my own internal world? Or am I choosing to live outward where I notice the wind brushing my face, hear the rustle of the aspen, and breathe in the sunrise that paints the sky?
There are days now, when I let my gaze go soft as the school bus passes by. I choose to think of the neighbor’s kids getting on the bus, lunch boxes and backpacks in tow, and coming home in the afternoon with stories from their day.
While there is comfort in reminiscing about my children in their youth, there is also a sense of lightness now in letting go. Now, I enjoy them as young adults, and marvel at the new stories they have to share.
Letting go allows me to live in the moment, to notice what’s right around me, in front of me, and less of what is behind. As I gaze now at the leafless Hawthorne tree in our yard, I have to remember to water this tree in winter, 3 times a month. It’s a subtle reminder that there might be more below the ground, below the surface that I can’t see. In a way, the fall colors are like this, living only in the moment, for there’s really no where else to be. They stand brightly and bold, a part of nature’s perfect cycle, until it’s time to let go.
