Does it Hurt When the Leaves Let Go?
Article by Jared Sipple
As the hills and mountains around Berea College bleed hues of orange, red, and yellow, blotting out summer’s green, I like to encourage folks to watch the leaves fall. Amidst hectic schedules and endless to-do’s, this practice attempts to suspend the threads of our realities that pull at us relentlessly. During a few short weeks in October and November, we may raise our eyes to the sky and experience the natural phenomenon of change, manifesting in the vibrant colors of foliage floating above earthen floors. This we do with the understanding of the quickening approach of winter’s wind.
As I watch leaves fall, spiraling towards the Earth with individuality and conviction, they remind me of the universal need and natural compulsion to let go. We may let go of pieces of ourselves as we grow and change, of the weight and gravity of our everyday problems, and of our insatiable craving for control. These are just a few of the extensions of myself, cultivated by participation in capitalism and society saturated in the drive to produce and succeed, that I attempt to relinquish as often as I can. And what a blessing is the soft rustle of leaves outside my window, as this explosion of warmth in autumn’s colors may fuel the fires in our hearts that prevent emotional frostbite from setting in. As the days get shorter and the hillsides are drained of their last drops of color, leaving behind grey and brown landscapes void of warmth, we must remember that Mother Nature is not ignorant of the weight of winter’s breath.
As I attempt to savor the limited hours of light through the winter, I often find myself lethargic and melancholic. When the seasonal depression sets in, I can’t help but wonder why it is that I am working on final papers and projects when my Appalachian ancestors, tucked between mountains in Eastern Kentucky, spent this time canning produce and salting meats so they may survive another winter. But perhaps my situation is more like that of my kin than I realize. Maybe they felt the same slow pull of grey skies and bare frosted limbs, reluctantly accepting their fate. I imagine that my hesitation to embrace the dull expressions of the sky and rolling hills resembles the life of my Preacher Papaw around this time each year. Perhaps he hesitated to sit down to work on his Sunday sermon just as I struggle to finish papers and meet deadlines. What I need to remember is that there is stillness waiting on the other side. This work can be performed with intention, knowing that spacious rest lies just beyond the deadlines. And how challenging it can be to embrace the stillness that follows the storm.
Mother Nature does not ignore the discomfort and pain that so many of us experience in stillness, but she also knows the importance of respite. The emotional and spiritual manifestations that accompany this change in the seasons are a part of the natural cycles that call us into ourselves to recharge and rest. Rest is one of our species’ most critical needs, and still society does not encourage this practice. Perhaps superficial and performative “relaxation” finds its way into our feeds, but not deep and restorative rest. Why is it that self-care regimens require effort and accomplishment? Could we satiate our need to care for ourselves without feeling exhausted from the compulsion to purchase face masks and expensive skin-care products?
Within capitalism, rest is transformed from a sacred act into a commodity, as our lives become an exercise in productivity and achievement. Work makes money, effort leads to production, and stillness cannot be recognized for what it is, fertile and rejuvenating. Because of our critical need as human beings to slow down and rest, and the ways that society refuses to meet these needs, our bodies rely on the change of the seasons to direct our lives and our work. Without winter’s chilling respite, there would be no space for spring’s emergence. How many of us would slow down if it were not for the seasonal sadness or impassable icy roads?
Prior to the industrialization of the Appalachian region, folks’ lives more fully followed the ebb and flow of the seasons, working diligently through summer’s long days as well as autumn’s crisp mornings, taking to indoor chores and handicrafts when the winter air was too brisk to face. This fluctuation in workload and energy expenditure was encouraged by the seasons, allowing folks to tap into the way that nature engages in similar cycles of consumption and collection before hibernation and stillness. Think of the neurotic squirrels frenetic and frantic as they scurry across campus and prepare for hibernation.
The challenge that often emerges from attempts to slow down and find stillness is the unrelenting voices inside of our minds, encouraging us to fix this and finish that. In these moments, endless task lists of to-dos and obligations blot out intentions to be still and take refuge in deep and restorative rest. Refusing these voices is no easy feat, but this battle is one worth fighting, I assure you. Even in moments of discomfort, as the voices in our minds push us to accomplish, produce, and engage, we must resist, cultivating the hard-learned art of stillness. Like the towering branches of the mighty oak that relinquishes their orange and crimson leaves, leaves that provide much-needed nutrients and energy to the soil and critters within it, fall to the forest floor to decay and transform into nourishment, we must let our worries and impulses slip from our minds to rot on the ground and feed our futures. We obviously cannot let go of all responsibilities, commitments, or obligations, but when one takes time to consider what could be relinquished, the results may be surprising.
I consider wintertime and her melancholic call as the Earth herself urging us to be still, to take stock, and to rest. I hold the heat of autumn leaves in my heart, prepared to face the cold. As I await the promise of spring, when the reservoir of sadness spills over and weighs on my heart, I will let these waters wash over me and attempt to be still, listening to their wisdom. But for now, I rest, take stock, and eat potato soup and cornbread. You’re welcome to join me. I encourage all of us to refrain from separating ourselves from the wisdom within these cycles, or from identifying their manifestations as definitely good or entirely bad. I am aware of the challenging nature of these invitations, but the trees never said that their leaves letting go doesn’t hurt.
