The Amber Leaves of Autumn

a final poem from among the trees

October 2023 in northern Michigan.

For the last six+ weeks, I have intentionally and actively lived and moved among the trees. Immersing myself in their exquisiteness, wonder, and wisdom. I began reflecting on this journey here at Wednesdays at the Well in September, inspired to do a series on trees after writing and sharing an original poem about one tree in particular with a church I once served during my time in ministry. (Read that post here.)

There is this tree—I want to call it mine, but undeniably it is ours, all of creation’s—nestled close to the banks of the Detroit River, on what was first home to the Anishinaabe Nations of the Ojibwe, Ottawa, and Potawatomi. It is not the tallest or widest or strongest tree, but in my estimation has the most perfect view.

On my (almost) daily walks to the tree, from her vantage point, I see two countries connected by bridges and tunnels and common histories of colonization and war. Inhabited by complex and creative people. I see a harbor where boats have been moved out in preparation for winter’s arrival. I see a light house and a large anchor, inviting me to question what guides and keeps me grounded. I see just small pieces of a city that cannot be understood without examining the whole mosaic. I see home, a place I’ve left and leave only to be beckoned back.

Our Tree on October 29th.

For a brief moment on a recent stop at the tree, I wondered if I got it wrong. Maybe water isn’t my defining muse, but trees? How can I transition 10 Camels from the water’s edge to the forest’s expanse? I’m kidding, but not really. This question took hold of my writing for days.

And here is the answer that arrived.

You do not have to choose. You can love water with same passion that you love trees. You can connect with branches and leaves with the same gentleness as stepping in the river at midnight or tossing wishes into a fountain. This idea that we as humans have to choose is one of the worst lies we have been sold. Two gifts make hands filled with abundance, not competition.

Many of my deepest pains, the events fueling my greatest griefs happened during the Fall, influencing my perception of this incredibly amazing and mysterious season. This year the shift in my spirit is as tangible as that of the trees. I haven’t completely shed the memories and sorrows that propelled me to first associate September and October with suffering, but I have released the belief that I have to choose.

I can embrace this season and listen when the wind blows those old losses back to my consciousness. I can admire the brilliant changing colors and hold space for the trauma that marked my body. I can be whole and honor the part of me that is still healing. I can walk this new path with confidence and speak to ways an old path altered my course forever.  I can forget and remember and remember and forget. Again and again. And again.

I can say goodbye to this season without regrets, knowing I dove into in all Autumn had to offer and like the empty harbor, I can ready myself for winter knowing the tree will be there with me for whatever comes. And be just as awed when she is blanketed with snow and her branches adorned with ice.

Below is the final poem of the series. Take a read and a listen. And then take a moment to remember what you’ve learned and let go of this season. What you’ll carry with you into the next.

---

Amber Leaves of Autumn
©Rebecca Wilson

last year autumn’s coming
felt like the first step of a waltz
toward a good bye we were not ready for

how did welcoming the colors become so painful
those once vibrant shades of yellow and orange
red and brown
now a dull reminder of death’s proximity
the green
oh how I wanted more time with the green

walking gently and sadly through the fallen leaves
listening intently to the crunching under my feet
readying as best I could for the harshest, coldest
most lonely winter I’ve known

death did come
we spent months, weeks, long nights together
in intimately small and sacred spaces
getting to know one another
our fears and our prayers
making peace with their presence
and learning more about the depth of their existence
which is far more about transformation than separation

we were all surprised
when they exited as quickly as they arrived
leaving behind the one they came for
the changes are subtle and simple
and yet so profoundly obvious

now free again to enjoy the colors
to breathe, to move, to walk, to hope, to dream
the changing seasons before our eyes
the green
oh the luscious wild green
we so love and cherish

journeying with gratitude along this old country road
curiously attuned to the birds above
and the message of the amber tinted leaves of autumn
the one that just landed on my shoulder
not lost
just preparing to rest for a season

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

I’m sure I am not alone in feeling the intense emotions surrounding the upcoming elections here in the United States. Next Wednesday will be the day after. And we might not yet know the outcome and it’s possible we won’t know the outcome for days or longer. Next week’s Well will attempt to address the uncertainty, the fear, and the possibility that exist within us, whatever the results or the waiting period we are in. We can be anxious, restless, and sleepless and still keep on dreaming. We can cultivate the seeds around us, letting both our tears and our hopes water their future fruit and beauty.