Behind the Puddle

Thank you, October.

You arrived asking me what I was ready to release. That seemed like a simple enough question. Thirty-one days later, I have considerably more questions. Which, I suppose, means I was paying attention. This month began with leaves just starting to fall. One here. Another there.  The landscape still carrying plenty of summer while autumn slowly made itself known.

Now the trees are barer. The ground holds what the branches once did. The light has changed. The days have shortened. The view from my chair is different. And somewhere during all of that, I began understanding release differently too. I used to think letting go meant something fairly straightforward. You hold something. Then you don’t.

October reminded me that human beings are rarely that simple. Because we don’t only hold things in our hands. We hold them in memory. Identity. Expectation. Routine. Relationship. Hope. Grief. Love.

Sometimes we hold onto something because we need it. Sometimes because we’re afraid. Sometimes because we don’t know who we will be without it. And sometimes because it mattered so much that releasing it feels almost like betraying what it meant. October asked me to look at all of that.

It showed me Change happening so slowly that I might not recognize it until I looked backward.

Simplicity revealed what can become visible when some of the excess falls away.

Wisdom reminded me that not every experience needs to become a lesson.

Continuity taught me that an ending can be real while something meaningful still continues.

Acceptance asked me to stop arguing quite so much with what is true.

Memory reminded me that what is no longer visible can still shape the landscape.

Reflection gave me permission to look backward without turning my life into a report card.

Trust asked whether holding tighter was actually making anything safer.

Patience reminded me that there is no universal timeline for becoming, healing, grieving, or changing.

Beauty showed me that beginnings don’t have exclusive rights to being beautiful.

Presence reminded me not to turn something into a memory while it is still happening.

Gratitude made room for two truths: I’m grateful you were here. And: I wish you could have stayed.

Resilience looked less like strength and more like getting through an ordinary Tuesday.

Legacy became less about what we leave after death and more about what our presence leaves in people while we’re still here.

Belonging reminded me that something can remain part of my story even when my relationship with it changes.

Peace stopped requiring every unanswered question to finally receive an answer.

Stewardship asked me to care for what is actually here instead of constantly trying to preserve what used to be.

Quiet showed me that absence and emptiness aren’t always the same thing.

Hope reminded me that changing what I hope for isn’t the same as giving up.

Perspective asked me to step far enough back to see more than whatever happened to be directly at my feet.

Wonder returned curiosity to things I thought I already knew.

Listening reminded me that some of the most important things are never actually said.

Gentle Change showed me how entire lives are transformed in all the ordinary days between the milestones.

Mortality reminded me that my days are limited—not so I will fear them, but so I might occasionally remember that they count.

Reverence reminded me that no life has to prove its usefulness before it deserves respect.

Homecoming became the recognition of those places and people where something inside us quietly says: There I am.

Enough challenged the belief that my worth should be measured by what I accomplish.

And then Presence returned, reminding me that I cannot preserve a moment simply because I noticed it.

I can only live it. Then came Legacy again. This time on my son’s birthday.

And October reminded me that some of the people who change us most profoundly are part of complicated stories. Not every relationship becomes what we imagined. That doesn’t erase what was true. Sometimes another person’s legacy in our life is simply this: I was different because you were here.

And finally, October brought me back to Release. The same word we started with. But it didn’t mean the same thing anymore. That’s probably the part I want to carry with me.

I don’t think October taught me how to let go. I’m not sure that’s something we learn once. Some things are easy to release. Some take years. Some we put down and pick back up. Some are taken from us before we are ready. Some things we may never willingly release at all. And maybe we don’t need to turn any of that into failure.

Human hearts aren’t trees.

We don’t simply drop what we’ve carried because the calendar says the season has changed. We remember. We attach meaning. We love. We grieve. We hope. We sometimes hold too tightly. And eventually, in our own time, we may discover that releasing something doesn’t require us to erase it.

Maybe that’s what October was trying to show me from the beginning.

The tree releases the leaf. But the leaf becomes part of the ground. The season ends. But it becomes part of the year. A person dies. But the relationship continues through memory, story, influence, and love.

Children grow. But every version of them becomes part of who they are becoming. Our bodies change. But the lives they have carried remain ours. Relationships change. But what they taught us doesn’t simply disappear. Places change. But home can travel with us. We change. And every version of ourselves becomes part of the person who arrives next.

Maybe release isn’t deciding something no longer matters. Sometimes it is recognizing that it matters differently now.

So thank you, October. For the leaves. The changing light. The quieter landscape. The memories. The birthdays. The difficult truths. The ordinary days.

For reminding me that acceptance isn’t approval. That gratitude isn’t an antidote to grief. That hope can change shape. That peace doesn’t require resolution. That enough isn’t something I have to earn. That mortality doesn’t make an ordinary life less meaningful.

It makes me want to be awake for more of it.

And thank you for teaching me something I didn’t know I needed to understand: I don’t have to keep something exactly as it was to honor what it meant. Some things I will carry. Some things I will release. Some things will probably remain somewhere in between. And all of them have helped create the person who will sit behind the puddle tomorrow.

November can meet her there.