AUTUMN IN THE PATINA MEADOW FOREST

Sounds of the ForestPatina Meadow

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As the wind loosens leaves and carries them to the forest floor, so too am I carried by the gentle gusts into the worn world of the woods.

As I begin my exploration, I wax poetic over the waning light.

The season that preceded was marked by life, abundant life, drawn toward an ever-present sun. Its bright, golden rays graced green treetops, leaves catching what they could, holding tight to the potent energy, reserving it for darker days.

Beneath these verdant partitions, creatures crept, crawled, leaped, and bounded, navigating dense underbrush, nibbling on sweet fruit ushered forth by the invigorating invitation of the celestial torch.

But now, what once was is no more. The sun still shines, but its glow no longer lingers long enough to grant the land of the living permission to flourish. And the leaves, who knew this day would come, have begun to release the golden light they’ve stored, transforming emerald canopies into shimmering gold. It is a different kind of beauty, but no less precious.

Walking under the thinning canopy, with warm light breaking through honeyed foliage, I bear witness to the seasonal show and slow my pace with the rhythm of autumn.

There is no hurry along trails blanketed in crunching leaves. Of course, I do know this moment will pass quickly.  Soon the trees will have given all they can, and winter’s darkness will overtake what is left of the light. But, for now, I take comfort in this liminal space that softens the transition from life to death.

In this season, the two coexist. Hardy green flora, refusing to surrender its stronghold on the battlefield of untamed terrain, bursts through fallen ochre pamphlets heralding the encroaching enemy.

Frantic fliers rest on departing fronds, and birds use half-barren branches as stages to sing their symphonies.

Though death will attempt to claim victory, life never waves the white flag. Death conquers the mighty maple grown too close to the sun, yet life encroaches as fungi creep through the corpse, their fruit breaking through brittle bark. And so the story continues—a never-ending war, the earth itself a battlefield.

I continue my walk, knowing that though all is passing away, it does so to bring forth new life beyond the dreary dearth.

I wonder: if I did not know of spring, if the reemergence of life were not promised, what would I think of this season? Would its cessation of vitality depress me? Would my tears fall with the leaves?

But graciously, we are given the promise of new life. We are reminded that bulbs can burst through frozen, hardened ground, that branches will bud anew, and that all lost terrain will be reclaimed, and then some, by the authority that governs the beating of our hearts.

Until that day arrives, I will let my boots fall and crunch the leaves. I will seek glimmers of hope that illuminate darkened days. I will listen for the field music of the opposing force, arriving through the unceasing song of wren and cardinal.

Until light once more overtakes darkness, I will rest with the trees and let myself be warmed by the fire of faith.

Love, 

Leila