Orange leaves and other changes

I went to bed one night with deep green leaves hanging on for dear life to the trees that frame the space out my window. Upon waking up the next morning, they had metamorphosed into bright yellow, orange, and red, crying out, “It’s time for a change.” I have always wondered why leaves must become so beautiful before falling and shriveling up dead. 

When I moved a two-hour drive away from home to pursue my MFA, I was frequently asked about how I was adjusting. Are you getting used to the workload? How do you like it so far? Are you settling in? The truth is, I don’t mind the endless reading or the deadlines binding my creativity. I appreciate the structure. It’s that last question that troubles me. Am I settling in? 

Over the past several months, it seems all I am able to write about is change. But it occurs to me that the only thing anyone writes about is change. Maybe it’s even the only thing anyone talks about. The same old same old may be comfortable, but it is certainly not exciting. 

As a fiction writer, I am often asking myself “What changed?” When I begin a story, I recognize that something has to be different in the lives and minds of the characters in order to justify the telling. No one wants to read a story about an ordinary day. We want excitement and adventure, suspense and tension. Then, at the end of the story, we want something to have changed again. We want the characters to have grown or learned something or to have reached a destination. 

As a former journalism student, a similar question is posed. To be newsworthy, something has to be new. It’s in the name. Journalists don’t care about the stagnant, they care about the interesting, the unusual, the changing. 

I don’t think it is deeply profound to realize that change is a good thing, that we would be bored and unsatisfied if everything always remained the same. But somehow, I have to keep learning that change is hard, but crucial. Maybe it’s because each change in my life is different from the last, or maybe this is just one of those things we have to write on our bathroom mirrors so we don’t forget. 

As I am writing this, I realize that I am not the leaves that explode into color only to die shortly after; I am the tree. When I know that leaves fall but they will come back again, I can stand strong through the cold winter. I can embrace the seasons as they come and enjoy them for what they are. 

For now, I get to look out my window and see the warm colors floating in the cool breeze. I can breathe in the air that smells like cider and cinnamon. I can walk through the yard with the sweet sound of leaves crunching under my shoes. I’m finding comfort in the beauty of autumn, but come winter, I shall stand, not mourning the loss of my leaves, but knowing they were supposed to fall, and they will come back again.

— sincerely, caroline cherry