I have noticed here how the wind roars first through the trees on the hill above me, they sway madly; and gathering a swell, send it roaring down to trees above the river and finally along to my giant mother chestnut and sister oak. There’s a swell, a wave, and then it passes. Like waves, they come in little sets.
Having been the first to lose their leaves to autumn, the poplars didn’t join in. They stand tall with their knobbly, dry limbs curling over the house. Wind like this makes me nervous that they will drop one of the especially large ones and take a chunk out of the roof. But I’ve found they drop their limbs regardless. Without party or ceremony. Just because it is time.
The chestnut leaves started turning yellow this week and I grieved a little. 44 years of the inevitability of seasons turning and I still can’t let go. I wondered if the tree grieved, as I did, in its letting go. I realised it did not. It’s just a thing that happens when it hits the right combination of daylight with the temperature. It’s just a part of being.
A wind like that blows my thoughts around, it scatters them into a slight panic. Then I lean into the grace of the trees, breathe their subtle aerosols and aromas, and it calms me. I am anchored by how they are steadfast through all manner of weather. I am stilled in humility, and also in gratitude.