Recently I stood for a long time in a northern Wisconsin forest. I was captivated by the remaining aspen leaves with their dry rattle in a fall wind. The background sky was blue. The sun had lost its summertime warmth but still had more power than the low-slung orbit of winter. I simply observed the beauty while letting thoughts flow freely through my mind.
I was reminded how I love to witness the life cycle of tree leaves. In early spring, the gray-brown of North Shore hillsides starts a blush of color as tree buds swell in early warmth. The uncountable numbers of tiny buds give a faint watercolor wash of spring hope. When the buds burst open with leaf life, the first days of green are unlike any other seasonal green. It is a tender, almost translucent green that seems eager to merge with gently warming spring sunshine. That first green lasts only a few days before it turns into a deeper green that will last till fall.
This transitional first green of leaves reminds me of the first pink of just-born human babies. They emerge into this world in slippery paleness that erupts into bright pink with their first breath. The “Breath of Life” is an ancient expression describing the “enlivening” quality of breathing air. The bright pink of newborns is also short-lived, turning paler as they quickly begin adapting to their new reality. I realize this description is of light-skinned babies that doesn’t apply to all babies worldwide. What is universal is the tenderness and vulnerability of all emerging life requiring conditions for survival and growth. Careful examination of emerging new life, whether plant or animal, is an inspiring opportunity to recognize the mysterious and wonderful creation we live in.
The windy day I stood in the woods listening to the leaves reminded me of leaf music that also changes with the seasons. Wind through the tree twigs supporting leaf buds is more “woody” than “leafy”. The sound is drier and slightly stormy. Once new leaves have taken on enough size to catch the wind, the music becomes softer, more whisper-like. The whispering becomes more “swooshing” depending on summer wind and rain. But that day, standing in the woods, I was listening to the dry, raspy rattle of the last leaves of fall.
For several years I have been wondering about the leaf stems. Those thread-like connections to twigs flex an uncountable number of times as the leaf catches wind, giving the name “Quaking Aspen” to their host. Their fluttering in the wind seems to wave hello in spring and good-bye in fall. Let’s imagine the leaf rocks back and forth once per second. I will guess the wind blows ninety days of the leaf’s lifetime. That equals just under eight million twisting flexes of that tiny thread of a stem. It is still intact when the trees drop their faded fall leaves. Pick up a leaf and notice the little curved “socket” where it attached to the twig. Try breaking that stem. Amazingly, it is still strong after all that flexing. I wonder if any human-made fiber is as strong.
That little socket at the stem’s end made me question what signal releases the leaf into the wind. Does that part of the stem act like a hand that grips the twig? Does it get tired like my hands do after a day of holding tools? Maybe the tree talks to its leaves, telling them it’s time to let go. We could take that possibility to heart. There are times we must let go: our children moving into adulthood, the passing of a loved one, regrets, our own youth.
I stood long enough that my legs began to shake like the tree trunks quivering in the wind. There were still some clumps of leaves remaining. A very few singles still fluttered in the wind. I wondered if they would survive the “gales of November” that sank the Edmund Fitzgerald. Would they endure the wind that took down that great ship and crew? When would they join the multitude of leaves already on the forest floor? Those leaves still had purpose after falling to the ground. Small animals, insects, molds, and mosses would use this year’s gift of fallen leaves. With time, those leaves would join past generations in creating the forest duff carpeting the ground. All the past generations of leaves provide food and home for a myriad of plants and small living things. Maybe the leaves never really leave.
“Leave” has several meanings. Originally it implied staying put. It also came to mean departing. “Leaf” and “leave” have a common origin in the Old English word “leaf”. I wonder if the double meaning of leave, to remain and to depart, originated in our ancestors closely examining their forests? A leaf “departs” the tree but “remains” in the forest. I’m only speculating, but very close observation of nature was our ancestors’ key to survival. Their thriving evolution was based on an intimate relationship with nature that is not often found in modern humans. Our ancestors lived by using their deep understanding of nature and recognizing their place in it. There were no alternatives. Our modern world gives us science and technologies that often function as a workaround to nature’s requirements. Participation with manmade systems results in less observation and engagement with nature. Our relationship to nature has diminished to the point of separation from our natural origins. We knowingly or unknowingly prefer our modern alternatives over what nature has to offer us.
However, emerging science is rediscovering the mental and physical health benefits of the natural world. Nature trails, “forest bathing,” and nature classrooms are becoming more common as ways to reconnect with nature in beneficial ways. I have a suggestion of what can be done by oneself. While outside in any setting where nature is present, find one little thing that makes you wonder. Yes, wonder. Something that stimulates questions in your mind. Don’t be too concerned with finding answers to your questions. The object is to find “wonder,” something inspiring, astounding, or surprising. When you find that one thing, use your wonder to look deeper. Do this multiple times with that same one thing. If you get bored, look at it in different ways. Up close, or at arm’s length. Try crossing your eyes to see it double. It will reveal itself if you spend enough time with that one inspiring thing. The whole ocean is in a drop of water. The whole forest is in a single leaf stem. Your joy is in your wonder.
