The afternoon sun glistens through the trees.
The leaves are just beginning to be marked by yellows and oranges.
I steal a quiet moment to soak it all in.
Change and letting go beat their steady drums right in front of me.
They mirror what’s happening in my own life, my own heart.
So much change.
Much of it visible to the outside world.
My kids growing and flying.
My move to the woods (#acorns) and very-far-away grocery stores.
My new and strange love of flower gardening.
My public writing.
My decision to take a sabbatical from church and ministry.
My now simple and unhurried life.
So much change.
Especially in the hidden places of my heart.
My growing ability to hold space for grief and joy at the exact same time, not trying to diminish one for the other.
My okayness with not having everything right this minute at my beck-and-call. #thisishardforme
My settledness of soul when I’m digging in the dirt and hashing things out with my Creator.
My surprising bravery sharing my not-so-pretty parts with the world and being somewhat fine no matter what others might think.
My emerging desire to lean into questions instead of being certain of answers.
My permission to explore long-held beliefs, systems, and what drives me to cling to them.
My switch from frantic to slow, elaborate to simple, piety to peace.
So much letting go.
Of children.
Of homes.
Of manicured lawns.
Of privacy.
Of a sense of belonging.
Of life as I know it.
So much letting go.
Of people-pleasing.
Of perfectionism.
Of patterns.
Of platitudes.
Of praise-seeking.
Of performance.
An acorn falls with a large thump.
A brown leaf floats and lands to my right.
Many already scatter my driveway.
The trees are changing right before my eyes.
It’s beautifully sacred to see.
The trees will soon let go of all their leaves.
It’s the exact right thing for them to do.
The trees need rest.
From providing.
From producing.
From blooming.
The trees are not afraid of change or letting go.
They are not afraid of rest.
They tell me I don’t have to be either.
