In Autumn the leaves catch fire with a blaze of colors, resplendent for their last hurrah, but Winter comes and the leaves wither, turn brown and brittle, and fall off the trees with every passing chill of the new season.
Things die in Winter.
The season I always hated. I liked the leaves better on the trees than on the pavement, I never cared for thermal underwear, and I hated getting in cold cars before the engines had time to heat up.
Just could never get my toes quite warm enough.
Somehow the forces of nature no longer seems quite so hostile.. The chill this year is a passing thought, carried lightly by the wind, with hints of spiced cider and holiday cheer. Where does the lightness come from? Oh, easy enough. It’s the first holiday season I haven’t sunk into a deep, dark depression in the 21 years I remember. I’d say that’s lighter.
This winter I choose what dies and what grows and what’s dying now is all the baggage I’ve been unnecessarily toting around from yesterday and yesterday’s yesterday and the yesterday before those yesterdays. Baggage becomes unbearable. Too much for tomorrow. This year resentments wither and fall away, crumpled under foot along with the dead leaves.