September 15, 2026

Today, it felt like fall for the first time. It felt like summer was fading. The temperature was cooler, and the air breezy. Leaves had fallen on the trail, and this time, my bike tires—not my feet—swooshed them out of the way in a burst of frenzy. Some squished, and only a few crunched. It wasn’t yet the time when all the leaves were so dry and old that they crunched. Not yet.

Most were a pale brown, possibly remnants of last year’s Let It Go phase. Some, still a shiny yellow, a new casualty of the phenomenon we call fall—a seasonal purge of what no longer serves the mighty and strong populations of the forest.

Why the yellow ones first? I expect a reason. Could it be less chlorophyll, and so their usefulness is shorter-lived?

Either way, there is a cleanup happening outside my window, in the forest and in the trees. Even the birds are beginning their exodus, and yet some will stay, with littered neighborhoods filled with leaves and discarded nests by neighbors until next year.

The Carolina Wren continues to sing. Is it serenading the trees, the leaves, or is it singing in celebration that it and its fellow winter residents get the forest to themselves?

What will I purge, if only I could willingly release the weight of expectations or baggage accumulated as I grow rooted to my present and future? Purging seems to come only with movement, and yet trees do this standing still every year.

We stand and stay and collect like hoarders. Trees let go, release, and are rooted from birth to death to reincarnation in place.

We let go when we leave, maybe because we never leave, we collect.

I wonder what it must feel like to be a tree. To let go and start anew, all while standing still.

Maybe growth is in the stillness—in standing still.