I’ve Known This Season

 

 

Four years ago, I wrote a post about a leaf. It was the last one on the tree outside my window.

And it would not let go.

Some people commented that it was possible the tree was the one who wouldn’t let go.

A few days ago, I was reminded of that post when I wrote a tweet about a tree anticipating the upcoming season. How the tree would be bare and vulnerable. How it had been through this before.

I’ve known this season. Danced with dying dreams. Watched bits of myself float away. Made myself bare and vulnerable, yet survived. Grown stronger.

The oak, anticipating winter, knows she will become more beautiful as she lets go. #FP

— Sarah Brentyn (@SarahBrentyn) October 4, 2019

So, yes, I’ve known this season.

Many seasons of losing bits of myself. Allowing the chlorophyll to seep away and show the world my true colors. Making myself vulnerable while being brave enough to bare leafless branches. Letting go of the leaves I’ve worked so hard to grow. Ones I thought I needed.

The leaves are just beginning to turn. They are changing. Dying. I need to remember there is beauty in these deaths.

I will survive. I can let go.

Dried-up dreams are getting caught in autumn breezes and whipping around my feet. I can let them scratch my ankles or I can dance with them.

 

🍃🍂

My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less. 

 

This tweet also inspired a response to Sue Vincent’s #WritePhoto over at Lemon Shark Reef. I love the way one, tiny thought can bloom into a flash, a poem, or a navel-gazing blog post (or even a book). It’s part of the magic and beauty of the writing process. 

 

How about you, gentle readers? What is changing for you this season? Have you let go of anything recently? 

 

Just a reminder: Hinting at Shadows is on sale for only 0.99 during October. 🎃
If you’d like to download a copy, here’s the link:
Hinting at Shadows 🖤

Letting the Light In

 

It’s dark outside.

 

 

The occasional car casts shadows along my wall—its bright headlights a stark contrast to the dark around my desk.

I blink at the computer screen. It’s 4:52. I check the weather and see sunset was 4:14. So early.

I reach to flip the lamp on and hesitate. This darkness is reflecting my mood nicely. I realize it’s actually reflecting my life right now as well.

I close my laptop and sit, allowing myself to be swallowed by darkness.

I breathe deeply. I let the darkness in.

It is strangely calming, feeling the darkness in my life and inside myself.

I decide to embrace it. Knowing that tomorrow, the first day of Winter, brings light.

The Winter Solstice heralds the return of the Sun even as it seems we’re entering the dark half of the year. We’re not. Sunset will be later. Each day will hold a sliver of additional sunlight.

Having acknowledged the darkness, I will appreciate the light that much more.

While the Solstice has always been magical, tomorrow I will open myself up fully to the hope and brilliance the Sun offers.

I will let the light in.

My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.

 

Dark is not a bad thing—it’s just the flip side of light. It’s also a wonderful time to contemplate (and honor the introverted, introspective hermit I am).

I wish you all a wonderful Winter Solstice, full of love, light, and maybe a wee bit of magic.
I wish you all a very happy holiday and a beautiful season of light. ❤

P.S. Happy Summer Solstice to my peeps in the southern hemisphere—where everything I’ve said is flipped on its head.

 

 

One Leaf

 

There’s a tree outside my bedroom window with one leaf on it.

 

 

This one leaf will not let go.

I mentioned I was on a journey to find my true colors. No longer hidden by green chlorophyll, this leaf found its color. It’s red.

But it’s not letting go.

Every morning, I see this stubborn autumn leaf. It hangs on, clinging to a thin branch.

I check on it after rain, after heavy winds—and there it is. Still on its tree in mid-December.

I said I was a leaf. I think I’m this one. The one that won’t let go.

Why am I holding on to who I was?

People change. Priorities change. Experiences shape and reshape us. Why do we resist?

Is it difficult to accept? Do we become complacent? Are we uncomfortable admitting we are not who we thought we were?

I’m thinking all of these are rooted in fear.

So, while I’ve found some of my true colors, I’m finding it difficult to let go.

A friend asked me why I continue thinking of myself as a woman I clearly no longer am. I didn’t have an answer.

But now I know that I am afraid.

 

My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.

 

Do you have difficulty letting go of who you were? Why? What is stopping you from moving on?  

 

 

 

Reaching Into the Well

 

I write about life—anecdotal and narrative essays. This is what I do.

I have a blast trying my hand at flash fiction, short stories, and have been working on twelve books for twenty years but, really, my writing is mostly personal.

To do this, you need to dig, break up some earth, to get to the gems.

I don’t.

I skim.

My words are leaves and bugs floating on top of a pool and, when I write, I’m just using one of those mesh things to get the stuff on the surface.

You can come up with a net full of fascinating material doing that, but there is often a lot of debris in the water or on the bottom of the pool. When you kick up some of the stuff that’s been resting undisturbed, interesting things can happen.

Charli Mills, who invites writers to share their flash fiction every week at Carrot Ranch, once commented that I write “deep”—that I have a well I can reach into for my writing. It was a lovely compliment but made me question myself and my process.

If this well is there (and I think it is), why am I not reaching into it?

Why can I write so deeply about a fictional character but not dive in when I write about myself?

This seems an easy question to answer. Probably fear.

I’m a pretty introspective person so it’s not that. I can easily look inside myself and see the beautiful broken pieces, the harsh edges, the softness. I have journals full of hurt and anger and love but I don’t want to write about these things. It’s not something I’m ready to do. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. For now, I’ll skim and joke and poke fun at myself and my life. Occasionally, I’ll accidentally write a serious piece.

I’m okay with that.

I wonder, though, how all these other writers—memoirists and essayists—pull from their wells and share such poignant moments and memories.

Do you write personal pieces? Does this make you feel vulnerable? Do you skim or reach into your well of memories?