#20: The Fallen Leaf

Catch a falling leaf and you can make a wish. But what would you wish for?

Autumn is a season of wishes: wishing that summer wasn’t over, wishing for Christmas to arrive; wishing for the leaves to stay on the trees, permanent, golden soldiers, wishing they would fall and carpet your way; wishing to be inside in the warmth, or outside, dancing in the falling flecks of gold.

Autumn is a transition: between summer and winter; between warm blue skies you can touch and cold blue skies you can breathe; between lazy outdoor meals and hot drinks wrapped in blankets; between having nothing to do and everything.

Autumn is a season you can touch. It presents us with gifts we can hold, objects we can pocket: conkers, collected and conquered; fallen apples, fetched and feasted upon; and leaves, trodden under foot, slipped on, or, if you are like me, carried home and cared for.

Autumn is a hygge season. It invites us inside, to read by the window, watching night fall like the leaves outside.

Autumn is my favourite season: I like boots meeting leaves and propelling them into the air; I like scarves and winter coats without the true chill of winter; I like being patted gently by the occasional curling leaf; I like cinnamon and hot baked apples; I like several songs about autumn leaves.

My leaf is a reminder of nature. A visitation of the outside, inside. It brings the season’s colours into my bedroom — the golden hues, the soft yellows, the ruddy reds like my cheeks as the air batters them playfully.

It connects me to the season, to the time of year. It allows me to feel present within the passing of time. It lets me hold the moment in my hands and to let it go.

It has dried and crisped. It is brittle and easily-broken. It is a preservation of a piece of nature dying, but it dies beautifully. The brilliant yellow has mellowed into a warm brown. It has fallen, but it fell with grace.

My leaf is my own. It is singled out from its brothers, scattered on the floor. Perhaps it is lonely; perhaps it is special. The human interaction transcending it from an unmarked grave, or denying it a shared, gradual sleep.

I will watch it on my desk, twirl it in the light, letting it remind me that human problems come and go, but every year the leaves will fall. Every year I can watch the leaves, dance in the leaves, collect the leaves. Every year nature will show her golden hoard and I can take a leaf and watch its shadow.

My leaf sits on the side and will soon grant me my wish.