Blog · Reflection

The Quiet Wisdom of Falling Leaves

The trees across Vancouver are losing their leaves, the bright reds and oranges of autumn falling more and more to the earth. The deadness piles and crunches beneath my feet—and catches along the wheels of my stroller.

On our walk to the park recently, my kiddo picks up a stick, carries it and waves it around for awhile, and then rests it at the base of a big Elm. We give the stick back to the earth, I tell him. It's a simple thing, and one I've said so many times now it feels like ours.

“We give the stick back to the earth, I tell him.”

This is all unfolding on the unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) peoples. Land I don't belong to, and am trying to learn to be responsible to.

When I let my body feel the earth below me and take in all the beauty of the autumn landscape, I am reminded of how fast I used to move. For most of my life, speed was standard. I used to walk so briskly, not really noticing what was around me, just needing to get to where I was going. Proud of my quick steps. My agile navigation of the crowds on busy streets. My umbrella strategy or my quick bicycle riding. Always arriving a little bit dewy with sweat, achieving some amount of exercise and getting so much done before or after, fitting it all in.

Slowing down and tuning inwards over the last five years has felt like a radical and often uncomfortable act. Understanding my own needs in this fast paced world isn’t always obvious or clear. It's challenging to slow down when my body wants to keep moving, to say no to invitations, and to settle into being rather than doing. All of this feels hard. It's a constant work in progress to lean into this knowing that I am actually a part of nature, and not separate.

“ I find myself wishing I knew more about each tree's story”

If I could sit with myself ten years ago, I would invite that younger me to really take in these moments of crunchy leaves. To revel in the chilly air that lets my lungs breathe so deeply, expanding my capacity to feel rooted here. To feel the land hold me, and to sense the depth of what these many city trees know, the ones that fill the streets and parks. How much history have they seen and witnessed? I find myself wishing I knew more about each tree's story: when they arrived, how long they have been standing there taking in the view. And then I think about the complexity of the ecosystem that each tree holds, what birds and squirrels and bugs live within the branches and the bark.

This is all unfolding on the unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) peoples. Land I don't belong to, and am trying to learn to be responsible to.

When I let my body feel the earth below me and take in all the beauty of the autumn landscape, I am reminded of how fast I used to move. For most of my life, speed was standard. I used to walk so briskly, not really noticing what was around me, just needing to get to where I was going. Proud of my quick steps. My agile navigation of the crowds on busy streets. My umbrella strategy or my quick bicycle riding. Always arriving a little bit dewy with sweat, achieving some amount of exercise and getting so much done before or after, fitting it all in.

Slowing down and tuning inwards over the last five years has felt like a radical and often uncomfortable act. Understanding my own needs in this fast paced world isn’t always obvious or clear. It's challenging to slow down when my body wants to keep moving, to say no to invitations, and to settle into being rather than doing. All of this feels hard. It's a constant work in progress to lean into this knowing that I am actually a part of nature, and not separate.

I hear more and more the call for slowing down. What I once understood as my enduring capacity was actually just a response to what the world was churning. Keepin 'on chooglin’ as my dad used to say, is unsustainable for my body, and for most bodies really.

I get caught in this idea that transformation has to be big, loud, or constantly moving toward growth. I was taught that progress means building upward so others can see how much I’m achieving. But the trees tell me another story.

“I want to offer you some grace.”

If you find yourself caught in a loop of constant doing, and it feels like things might break inside if you slow down. Or that the cracks might become too big if you take a pause. I want to offer you some grace. It is okay to keep going fast as you need in order to feel safe. Your nervous system developed that speed for a reason.

But I also invite you to look at what is happening outside your window, to lean into the wisdom of what you see around you in this city.

As the crunchy leaves turn brown and sink back into the dirt, I keep being reminded that there is a quiet beauty in the falling of things. As I tell my kiddo when we walk through the park: we give the stick back to the earth.

“Transformation doesn't always look like blooming.”

Transformation doesn't always look like blooming. Even if it looks like to someone else that your leaves are falling rather than growing. But underneath the surface, in the quiet darkness, the internal landscape of your roots can be expanding because of that slowing down.

As the days shorten and the winter cold settles in, the trees show me that resting is not dying—it is conserving energy. It is sending nutrients back down to the roots so that when the time comes, I am grounded enough to sustain whatever comes next.

Slowing down, saying no, and settling into being rather than doing is hard work. It is daily practice. But the earth isn't in a rush, and you don't have to be either.