Behind the Puddle

The leaves are beginning to fall. Not many yet. One here. Another there. A few scattered across the yard as though the trees are testing the idea before fully committing. Soon there will be more. A lot more. Enough that I will probably stop finding the whole process quite as poetic.

But right now, I notice each one.

There is something almost effortless about the way a leaf lets go. No announcement. No argument. No attempt to negotiate another week attached to the branch. It simply reaches the end of what belonged to it there. And releases.

Humans are considerably more complicated. We like to hold things, people, places, roles, plans, expectations, traditions, possessions, memories, and versions of ourselves.

Sometimes we hold them because we love them. Sometimes because they’re familiar. Sometimes because we worked really hard to get them. And sometimes because we have absolutely no idea who we will be without them.

That’s why I struggle a little with how casually we sometimes talk about letting go.

As though releasing something means we should no longer care about it. As though grief has an expiration date. As though moving forward requires leaving everything behind. As though there is something unhealthy about wanting to hold onto what mattered.

I don’t believe that.

The trees aren’t releasing leaves that meant nothing. Those leaves spent an entire season doing exactly what leaves are supposed to do. They captured sunlight. Fed the tree. Provided shade. Sheltered wildlife. Moved with the wind. Changed the landscape.

Their work mattered. And now their relationship with the tree is changing.

Maybe release can be like that. Not rejection. Not forgetting. Not deciding something didn’t matter. Just recognizing that the way we carry it may need to change.

There are people I will never release from my heart. Memories I hope I carry for the rest of my life. Places that will always be part of how I understand home. Versions of myself I don’t want to erase simply because I have become someone different.

But maybe I can release the expectation that those things must remain exactly as they were.

I can love someone who is gone without pretending they are still physically here. I can treasure a season without trying to recreate it. I can remember who I used to be without requiring my current self to live by her rules. I can appreciate what something gave me and still recognize that its work in my life may be changing.

Maybe releasing isn’t always about what we put down. Sometimes it is about loosening our grip.

Making enough room for something to become what it is becoming. That doesn’t mean we have to be ready. Some things take time. Some things we release gradually. Some we pick back up several times before realizing we really don’t need to carry them anymore. Some things may travel with us forever, just in a different form.

Nature doesn’t seem bothered by any of this.

The leaf falls. It becomes part of the ground. Eventually it becomes part of what nourishes something else. Nothing about that says the leaf didn’t matter.

Quite the opposite. It mattered enough to become part of what comes next.

Maybe that is the quiet grace of releasing. What we release isn’t necessarily erased. What we have loved doesn’t become unloved. What mattered doesn’t suddenly stop mattering. Sometimes we simply stop asking it to remain the same.

Behind the puddle, October has begun. The trees are starting to loosen their grip.

Maybe I can learn to loosen mine too. Not on everything. Not all at once. Just enough to notice what I may be holding because I still need it… and what I may be holding simply because I am afraid of who I will be when my hands are open.