Falling Leaves

This morning I took my dog for a walk. I was upset and my body was telling me to move, to expel some energy. Heeding the advice of new friends, I decided to practice mindfulness.

I focused on the leaves of each tree I passed, on their veins and bursts of color. I noted the way their ends curled and thought of how they might crunch underneath my feet once they fell. My mind abandoned it’s downward spiral and I found myself in some quiet.

The breeze, carrying summer out of town and ferrying in the fall, felt cold on my skin and delivered me some comfort. The sidewalk was a stark gray and littered with imperfections: divots, cracks, and abrupt inclines.

I practiced breathing. Two count in, two count hold, two count out.

I thought of my husband. I wasn’t sure what had happened last night or how something so small had become so large. I felt sad. I wished again that I would learn that I can’t turn back time, that I can’t rewind the hurtful things I say out of desperation to be heard.

Two count in, two count hold, two count out.

I thought of how fulfilled I felt in my life recently; so fulfilled that anger didn’t have much of a place in me anymore. It rolls off me differently than it used to, just months ago when it would bury in me like a splinter. I felt secure. Enough to not litter my night with thoughts of surrender and self-sabotage.

I breathed and felt my skin tighten to the cool air and my mind drift down, like a leaf falling slowly to the concrete. The high buzz of regret, indignation and righteousness that I had felt churning in my head this morning was gone. It had been reduced to a low hum.

And that’s loud progress.  

3 Comments Add yours

  1. Bela Johnson says:

    This is lovely and tender – written from a place of honest vulnerability. And how insightful to understand the following. You are lucky. Some never get it. “I wasn’t sure … how something so small had become so large. I felt sad … I can’t rewind the hurtful things I say out of desperation to be heard.” Bravo. And it’s never too late to apologize. We still do it with one another, 25 years later. Aloha.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. elehla says:

      Thank you, Bella. I read your words and they felt like a hug 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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