Make Like a Tree and Leaf

If you are able and you haven't allowed yourself to sit still and watch the leaves prepare to fall - and then eventually tumble to the ground - then you should. 

If you watch right now, in Iowa, you might see the remaining oak leaves, stubbornly clinging - completely unwilling to visit the ground.  Their time, as far as they are concerned, has not yet come.  It's almost as if, like so many of us, they hold a fear deep in their hearts that change is not desired.  Perhaps they are willing to paint the walls a different color, as they explore yellows, reds, rust colors and browns.  But, when it comes to taking that final leap, it just feels like too much.

Other leaves, like the maples, almost seem anxious to get it all over with.  I know the Gingko tree in our yard shook every last leaf off in one instant the day after we got our first freezing temperature.  Those leaves were lemming-like, leaping off the cliff together so they could blanket the ground around that little tree.  One moment, they were green and present, at the end of every twig.  The next, they were yellow and down, ready for the next windy day to take them wherever it wanted.

Some leaves that still remain on the trees move gently in the breeze, still hanging on as they contemplate their impending trip.  There always seems to be one in each crowd that bobs up and down far faster than seems to be required by the wind.  Nervous energy making them stand out, making you wonder if they are excited to go.  Still, they cling to the tree.  That's when you realize that they might be the most fearful ones in the group.  Anxious and tense.  Pacing back and forth within the confines provided by the trees branch and the attachment they cling to.  Desperately.

Eventually, each leaf succumbs and falls.  Some are ripped away from their trees, perhaps prematurely, as a gusty, cold wind tears them from the only home they have known.  Others find a calm day with a light breeze talking them into making the choice for themselves.  This is when it is easiest to see each leaf for what it is and the choices it makes.

One large oak leaf releases its hold and swoops in broad and dramatic arcs from the tree's branches and past other trees.  Somehow, it misses all of the limbs in its path, making one final swoop and dive until it lifts up briefly and settles lightly onto the ground.  Sitting there almost as if it were waiting for applause in response to its fine effort.

The remaining leaves clinging to an elm are dry and curled.  One lets go and you can imagine you hear an audible "pop."  It spirals quickly to the ground at the base of the tree, only tumbling when it meets a small branch on its journey.  It quickly rights itself and completes its corkscrew journey until it lands with its siblings - still standing upright in the pile.  This time, it actually does make a sound.  Not much to our ears, but it must surely sound like the crashing of a mighty wave or the rumbling of thunder to the leaf.

Another stubborn leaf, perhaps from a sycamore, releases its hold.  It doesn't just swoop.  It doesn't spiral.  Instead, it expresses its individuality by tumbling, stem over leaf tip, through the air.  It catches a stronger puff of warm fall wind, allowing it to add a swoop in between its tumbling.  Then, just before it reaches the ground, it stalls - stopping in mid air.  And suddenly, takes the last couple of feet by going straight down and landing flat - next to its brother.

There are leaves that take this falling business very seriously.  Almost as if they imagine a panel of judges, waiting with large cards to display a rating for each effort.  A nine for the leaf that managed to include three loops amongst the tumbles. A quadruple loop would certainly increase the level of difficulty and perhaps win the next leaf a prize.  

Another leaf just simply does a swan dive, plummeting straight down, only to have its path interrupted by human walking on the hiking trail.  Pure happenstance destroying its chance at a ten.  It receives a three instead - along with the sympathies of its audience.

And, of course, there are the leaves that would prefer that their journey to the ground be kept private.  They try out their path when they are most certain no one is looking.  Sometimes they opt to release their grip in the dead of night.  Or they hold on longer than most, to drop with the snowflakes.  After all, THOSE show-offs get most of the attention in early Winter.  Who would bother to watch a leaf when there are snowflakes to enjoy?

But, perhaps, the most amazing thing about each leaf's journey is the fact that they don't get to practice.  They don't get a second attempt.  And they don't always succeed with their loops, twists and spins.  Most of them take a completely disorganized and out of control path from limb to earth.  And some few actually find another place to land, like the limbs of a coniferous tree - cradled there as if they were orphans being cared for by another that doesn't understand how all of these deciduous trees could let its leaves go.

Some trips are longer than others.  The leaves on a seedling are less than a foot from the ground, while others are sixty or eighty feet up.  Some leaves must surely revel in their place so far above the earth, while others may look with extreme trepidation at this great distance.

I don't know, of course, what the leaves think.  But, I do know that it was worth my time to observe, and appreciate, the annual event that is Autumn.