Yellow Leaf Wisdom

Oh, Honey. I didn’t think you’d choose me. I’m faded, and the insects have poked holes in my once-waxy beauty. Usually, you go for the striking reds, burnt oranges, or the still-vibrant greens that are hanging on.

Why me? Why an imperfect yellow leaf?

Is it because I’m bright, yet less showy than my leafy sisters and brothers? Mellow, yet still distinctive? No longer perfect, yet still attractive in a natural kind of way?

Or did you choose me because you noticed I was lying near some bear scat?

Remember when you were hiking in Cape Breton National Park with your sisters, and drove them crazy by describing the types of scat—bear, deer, moose, and coyote?

You were so proud of your knowledge of forests, and they could have cared less.

“Enough with the scat stories,” they pleaded. “Look at the view.”

I’m glad they reminded you to look up and beyond. Being heads down and alert for danger will stoop your back and your mindset.

Look for the yellows. Not just in leaves like me. Put your face up to the sun. Sip tea on the porch under the harvest moon. Rise early and get a jump on the day. Watch the early sun rise and bounce off the building windows across the street.

What else might you see if you live heads up vs. heads down?

As a dying leaf, I can’t answer that for you. All I know is how much I loved swaying on the branches of the sugar maple tree, never worrying about the end.

I didn't worry if I’d turn red, orange, or faded yellow, or if I’d keep a pure, waxy shine, or if bugs would nibble at me.

I just swayed and sang high up in the tree. Together, we rustled, a natural wind chime for forest walkers to hear.

Sway and sing, my love.

Look up and around.

Know that endings can be soft.

Just let go.

Have faith that someone may see you, pick you up, and listen to what you still have to say.