I’ve been living here for almost seven months now. When I was born, it was early April. The days were starting to get longer, warmer and sunnier, but of course, I didn’t know about that change.
I was a newborn, and all I knew was that it felt great to soak in the sunshine, to be bathed in occasional showers and to feel secure in the knowledge that I was firmly and lovingly attached to my branch. I knew I’d nourish the tree and that it would do its part to keep me green and happy.
Time melted into summer, with the nights getting shorter and the days warmer and longer. I could feel myself getting bigger and greener. My veins were getting longer and stretching themselves out across the length of my body.
I had a visceral feeling that this is how it was going to be forever: long, warm days, interrupted only by the kiss of a gentle summer breeze. I said hello to the breeze and it waved back at me, as it kept flowing past my neighbours. “This is the life,” I muttered to myself.
Every day, I felt grateful for our two-way relationship: I was absorbing the sunlight and giving the tree the energy it needed, while it was feeding me water and minerals and keeping me thriving. Somehow, each of us knew what the other needed, and we both did our part in making sure that the other being was safe, fed and secure.
How could I not marvel at the bliss that our marriage was?
The arrival of autumn
After a while, the days started getting shorter. I noticed that the sun was setting further to the south than it used to. Mornings were a bit chilly; the clouds would clear up, but not until later in the day. I also started to feel a vague sense of unease, of change. I was no longer my bright green self; miniscule shades of yellow and orange were starting to paint themselves over my body, dot by red dot.
I was starting to get subtle messages from my partner. The point where my stem was attached to the branch—the place where I held hands with the tree—was starting to feel a bit sore. I could sense that something was off-kilter. Maybe I was being deprived of nourishment? Either way, our hands were starting to drift apart; our fingers, which were always intertwined tightly, were now starting to untangle themselves.
I asked the tree if it still loved me. A cool breeze wafted past us, forcing me to dance. I was in no mood to dance; what I wanted was an answer, not a ballet.
I started to wonder if I hadn’t been the best partner I could’ve been. Perhaps I didn’t absorb enough chlorophyll and share enough energy, and this was the tree’s way of telling me that my time’s coming up? But why didn’t it say so earlier? After all, I was right next to it, at every second of our lives.
With every passing day, I started to get painted over more and more. A few weeks later, you wouldn’t have recognized me: I was almost all yellow and red, with barely a trace of my true green self. Maybe I need to hold on tighter, I thought; I might get more nourishment that way. But there didn’t seem to be a way for me to alter my relationship with the branch. It seemed like it had already made up its mind.
I couldn’t help but nostalgically think of May, of how secure and joyous everything felt then. I used to think that every day was supposed to be that sunny, warm, loving May day. I was never a fan of change. I liked my status quo: bright green leaf, wedded to a 60-year-old maple tree. I wanted things to be that way forever. Why change something if it’s working well?
I started to notice that my fellow siblings were also changing colours. Some of them were no longer attached to the tree. One windy afternoon, a bunch of them just took off into the air—just like that, with no goodbyes, no parting hugs, no ‘I love you’ kisses—and wandered away. I don’t know where they ended up. I don’t want to know.
I don’t want to bear witness to this forced separation. All it’s been doing is making me more anxious: Where am I going to end up? How will I survive on my own? How long do I have before I’m let go of? What happened to our marriage, our vows that we took in spring, of being there for each other, of committing to each other’s well-being?
The coldness of winter
It’s damp and cold here. I’m in a small puddle, floating beside my siblings. I’m dark-brown and withered, a far cry from the vibrant, strong green I used to be. Some days, I look up and try to find my partner, but they’re nowhere in sight. I wonder if I ever was with them, or if it was just a dream that lasted three seasons.
I wonder how they’re doing, how they’re surviving this cold winter, if they still remember our joy-laden spring afternoons. I wonder if they still have any of my siblings, or if they’ve let go of everyone.
Let go. Let go. In late autumn, I found it hard to accept those two words. Why ‘let go’? Why not ‘let’s be’? Were we not a good match for each other? Didn’t we do our part to keep the other being happy and well-fed?
I wish I’d treated change as walking out the door from one room to another, instead of thinking of it as the door closing and shutting me in.
I don’t know. I guess I had to go through the process of being let go of and abandoned into this muddy puddle, where people often step on me with their shoes, to realize that change is the only constant in life.
Whether it’s over the course of three seasons or six decades, there will be change. I didn’t know that we all have seasons: our ups and downs, our greens and yellows and browns, our periods of gusty winds and periods of calm, our fears of being abandoned and about change that we have no control over.
I wish that in those preciously short autumn days, instead of worrying about what lay ahead, I had enjoyed the remainder of my time with the tree. Instead of trying to cling hard to the branch, I wish I’d relished that waning sense of being attached and started looking forward to a new life, a new beginning. I wish I’d treated change as walking out the door from one room to another, instead of thinking of it as the door closing and shutting me in.
But all of that was then. And this is now. I don’t know what’s ahead. Maybe I might resurface as another being next season. Maybe I might find someone else to couple with. Maybe I might be the dirt that nourishes someone else. I don’t know.
«VERWANDTES LESEN» A BENCH UNDER THE MAPLE TREE: A story of the seasons of life»
