Yesterday afternoon, I looked at the leaves on the trees outside my windows and imagined how the trees will appear in two weeks, two months, four months. I looked at the leaves and wondered where they will be at each of those points in time. I looked at the leaves and wondered whether I will be grateful for the leaves as they fall, littering streets and driveways and forest floors with thick blankets of crunchy dry refuse that turns into slick, wet coatings for everything they touch.
I will be happy to have the new scenery, to see the trunks of trees that have been invisible for months and months, and to see more of the forest floor behind my house. The leaves have blocked the view of the forest floor. I’m glad they did, because by doing that, they gave me a different perspective on the forest. But can I be happy for the litter of leaves and the work that will require of me? I can and I will.
The only other choice would be to complain about things I cannot change. I’ve done that before to no avail. I cannot change the nature of trees, nor would I if I could. I have no reasonable choice but to embrace the falling of leaves.