Leaves yellow and drop as the sun fades into winter. These seasons come but four a year. Seasons of the heart change faster. Seasons of the soul … well … some would say there is only one.
They could be right, I don’t know. I will content myself with the yellowing leaves for now. It is not for me to theorise. God knows I’ve tried. I’ve contemplated, drawn diagrams, put words on paper in attempts to understand, and all I’ve learned is the trick of self-confusion.
What works for me, I’ve found, is simply to experience this. Take it in and move on, leave the analysis to the experts, the posturing to the politicians. The less I know, the more I understand; the less I have to say, the greater the freedom. I don’t know what anything means, and I am glad for it. It is easier on the mind not to dwell on what it cannot hope to know. Leaves a little room for the soul to speak, for the silence to sound like peace.
Let the leaves turn. I shall be the spectator, nature the magician, while my soul waits gently in the wings.