When I slow down—breathing and walking without that rushy habit that accompanies busyness—my squirrely mind generally slows down too. Thank goodness. A kind of other-awareness is ignited. Though there can be, also, a little subterranean rumble that sets me off on a search to know something better. Take deciduousness. I am steeped in deciduousness, having grown up and lived six decades in the “Eastern Deciduous Forest.” And what do I know about the why and how? I know that I am humbled by the ability of a massive, wooden, heavy-limbed thing to grow a green head-full of vegetable matter over the course of a few weeks each April . . . then to use these leaves to breathe (breathe for you and me, by the way) and manufacture nourishment . . . only to then, six-ish months later, withdraw water and nourishment to those breathers, turn-off their cellular factories, and, most astonishing of all, drop them to the ground. Bye-bye. Deciduous trees discard their lungs and mini food factories . . . and live without them for another five months before sprouting a whole new batch? Amazing! Is there a reason to metaphorize and draw parallels between humans and our deciduous companions? Not sure about that. We let go of stuff all the time, but nothing so vital to living. True, leaves might drag a tree over in a winter snow/ice storm (all that surface area on which frozen precipitation can accumulate). And yes, if you drop pieces of yourself at your “feet”--well then, you are providing for the future nourishment of your own self, with the help of worms, fungi, pill bugs, and the like. Consensus seems to be, however, that the deciduous habit is an adaptation to shorter days (less light) and cooler temperatures: times when trees cannot keep up the level of photosynthesis required to balance out carbon losses via respiration, which happens in the dark. Furthermore, when it is colder, darker, and drier, broad leaves (which the majority of our deciduous trees possess) have a lot of surface area exposed to potential water loss, not to mention damage via freezing temps. Because I am often overwhelmed by the productive frenzy of summers here, I am generally grateful for the coloring, browning, and dropping of leaves. The release feels good! Skies open up and I feel justified in becoming quiet—on long-term retreat, you might say. So: thank you, deciduous companions! |