How well do you let go?

There is a wisdom to autumn that isn’t evident in the seasons that come before. The wisdom of letting go. The turn of the leaves tells a story; of days gone by, the blush of spring, the sizzle of summer, the passing parade of time.

I spent the closing weeks of autumn in Melbourne this year. It’s maybe my favourite season down south. The crisp air, the rows of tall, regal, enchanting trees lining the streets. The clusters of fallen leaves, bronze, gold, emerald, burgundy. The crunch and crackle as my feet met them on my daily walks.

With each crunch a memory flashed through my mind. Of walks under the golden umbrella-like trees of the Nicholas Gardens, a place that has known the steps of three generations of my family. Our history now embedded in its own. Of Saturday mornings as a young girl, hand in hand with my father, trying to jump over the spiky balls that fell amongst the leaves. These seed pods also a way the trees shed, preparing for new growth.

I really turned to the wisdom of autumn this year. Pacing the neighbourhood streets surrounding my parents house, my childhood home. This first autumn without Dad. The second season he has now not known.

I fondled the fallen leaves, I gazed at the multi-coloured limbs of the trees, I inhaled the fresh air and watched my own breath form halos of misty clouds as it exited my mouth.

How many seasons had these trees witnessed? How many stories of life and death, endings and beginnings? How does autumn let go, over and over, over and over again?

How do we let go like autumn?

How can I let go like autumn?

It was my birthday on Saturday. The day prior to my birthday always feels autumn-like — heavy with the energy of shedding. In order to welcome the new year, we too need to let go of the old one. I’ve heard others say the same thing and I guess it’s particularly so for me as my birthday falls on the winter solstice. This date in itself spelling the renewal and return of the light, a shift in the direction of the sun.

This past year was filled with endings for me, endings of all kinds. Death crossed my path. Friendships broke up. Work collaborations closed. A certain naivety has also met its fate and has left me with a bittersweet taste. As has a stream of things I took for granted.

Some of this I’ve met with an unwillingness to let go. I’m holding on tight, kind of like the last trees to turn. Others have been easier to release or perhaps just more palatable as the new ‘norm’, whatever that may mean.

Winter has traditionally been a time of introversion for me. I mirror nature. I settle into the darkness. I see it as the void between the old and the new. The space for the seeds to be planted and to be nurtured for the future. To sit with the mystery of the bare branches and not know what comes next.

I relate very much to the archetype of the Greek Goddess Persephone. She spends half of her year in the underworld and the other half above ground. All her lessons, insights, visions come from her time in the darkness and she brings this up with her into the light. She straddles both worlds and I feel I do too.

Today in my tea ceremony I had a beautiful vision of my father surrounding me. He was half swimming, half flying around me, in a circle fashion, as if he was my very own angelic body-guard. It wasn’t a hard hold, but a gentle one, much like him.

It was as if he was holding me while I let go. Helping to keep me grounded why I shed some layers. Maybe that’s how autumn does it too, she knows she is held in the space of the great unknown, the source of all, the creator. So with each shedding she stays with the knowing that a greater energy is holding her.

How well do you let go?