I checked the weather this morning and learned that up north the leaves are filled with color. I am in the southern part of New England and still surrounded by green. I know this is temporary and will change. I resist this change, as did my Dad after my mother had a stroke shortly before she died. It was October, the same time of year as now. She was no longer cognitively alert but he hoped to wake her up and cheer her so he’d bring her leaves, only the most colorful and perfectly formed, and pin them to the bulletin board across from her bed. I feel the sadness of her loss each autumn but at this moment all feels still and timeless. I am on a retreat in the southern part of Massachusetts and have given myself the treasure of silence and reflection. I sit snug in a crevasse between the remnants of two rocks deposited by a glacier thousands of years ago being kind to the sadness I carry and observe my surroundings. My sleeveless shirts have been exchanged for sweaters and I now carry a jacket but I do not need to put it on just yet. A bird is chirping and the sun is warming my face. There is a crisp freshness to the air that brings to mind the taste of an apple I recently plucked from its tree in a local orchard. It was organic and mottled with spots but crisp, sweet and tart–like life.
It is a golden day and I am surrounded by beauty. Just as the leaves follow the seasons responding to the changing warmth and light so must I. I know this but resist it. I think of moving to California but instead am here learning to relax and go with the flow–be one with impermanence. I lean against the rock and soak in its warmth, solidity and endurance.