Letting Go

Our backyard maple tree is probably my favourite thing about the house we moved into six years ago. It kills the grass and makes a mess but it also means that I can pretend I’m in a forest if I stand in my tiny suburban backyard and look up at just the right angle. There are definitely some bonus points available for its shade too; I will happily avoid covering three tiny humans in sunscreen if I can.

And then there are the seasons.

In winter, we watch fluffy snow pile on the branches, turning the grey backyard into a wonderland.

In spring, when the leaves are still tiny enough to see its branches, we watch dozens of migrating birds.

In summer, we picnic and (some of us) enjoy magnificent muddy fun in its shade.

But autumn: it’s a chorus of yellow, orange and red.

It’s raking and jumping (and then raking and jumping again). It’s leaf mazes and leaf soup (that I only pretend to eat). It’s crisp afternoons with leaf crumbs in our hair because I’m not sure it’s possible to play in the leaves and resist throwing them.

It’s beautiful.

Even so, when the last few leaves have finally fallen to the ground and my camera roll is filled with blazing colour, I’m a little bit sad.

Do you think Google might know how I can coax my tree into holding on to her leaves for just a little longer?

But this tree. Somehow it knows. How to weather the seasons. When to cease striving. When it’s time to let go.

The biology of autumn is fascinating. Cool, long nights are interpreted as signals that photosynthesis will soon no longer be sustainable. Leaves in the winter, under heavy snowfall and strong winds, are a liability.

So she lets go. It’s a matter of survival.

And after forming a protective barrier, a layer of specialized cells between a leaf and its twig, a breath of wind is enough to bring the leaf down.

Humans do not let go so easily.

I’m not talking about the kind of letting go that happens whether we wish for it or not: weaning babies, independent kids or grey hairs.

I’m thinking of the letting go that purposefully gives up control, that has the courage to be still, that turns a Martha into a Mary. I’m thinking of kind of letting go that might look like rocking the baby, giving a child space to pursue a passion, tossing a curriculum, quitting, saying no or even asking for help.

Because sometimes, if we want to survive the winter, wholeness looks like bare branches.