I come to fall as a pilgrim

On leaves and leaving, bees and being.

If you prefer to listen, you’ll find an original audio recording here.👆

From house to car to memories of loss. (Photo by the author)

I come to fall as a pilgrim at the end of a journey, sinewy and efficient, senses attuned, soles thinned, the dust of summer in my dreams. I am ready to be set down.

What else is there to do when the well is thick with the leaves of living, the water stained with what has let go? The bucket brings up the season’s decay, and the ladle at my lips no longer touches thirst.

Fallen leaves stipple the air, the landscape, the doormat. They cling to my shoes and join me as I move from house to car to memories of loss.

Sensing what’s coming, and needing what there’s less of now, the bees are restless and a little desperate, crowding around the market baker’s stand, exploring the fruity scent of my hair, revisiting the same flowers again and again, monks to prayers. I hover nearby, hoping to save the scene with the click of a button, but I cannot keep the gracious aroma of the holy basil, the soft nap of the bumblebee, the emerald iridescence of the sweat bee.

The fig tree and the okra are still giving, only slower now that the nights are cool. I go out with my basket anyway and take what there is. I need an extra blanket on the bed.

I am oversensitive and prone to tears, unsure how or whether I have anything left to offer. Last night I dreamed I drove to a stranger’s house and let him drive me home, never thinking until I watched him leaving the driveway that he was in my car, the old silver stick shift, rusty in spots but going strong, the one my daughters learned to drive when they were 15. I couldn’t remember his name or where we’d met, what I needed from him or whether he provided it. I careened through rooms in search of a record, a phone number, an excuse, a way to fix my stupidity, and no one seemed nearly as frantic as me, not even my long-dead parents.

Near the end, one of my kin was stumbling along in cowboy boots, which she never wears, and I offered to help steady her. What works best, I asked. A hand to hold, a lifted arm, one tucked around your waist? They all help, she said, smiling.

~Elizabeth

Hovering nearby. (Photo by the author.)

As we settle into new seasons, I’m curious what that looks like for you. Are you making room for anything in particular? In the midst of everything that feels overwhelming or uncertain, how are you finding your footing?

I’d love to hear what’s on your mind, whether it grows from this week’s piece or from something else entirely. Maybe you’d like to leave a touch of wisdom here. I’ll take all of it I can find!

Thank you for being you, for reading, for sharing these words with others, and for helping make this a place where it’s okay to focus attention on what matters. I’m so glad we’re here together.

Your support is such a gift.

Afterward:

I believe small acts of care make a difference, especially when we practice them together. Taking care of the places and creatures we share is one way we make room for goodness to grow.

Try This:

Find a native plant nursery near you, and choose something to plant for the bees. Spring and fall are the best times! Not sure where to start? Explore the Global Pollinator Directory for resources in your part of the world. Then offer your support to someone else.

See you soon!