A frequent conversation around our house has centered on a massive three-trunk red oak tree in our backyard and its prolific capacity for producing acorns and leaves in their due seasons.
The scourge of acorns is of sufficient gravity to warrant a later writing dedicated to the suffering and anguish stemming from the identification and removal of this tough little nut (which is, as a matter of fact, hard to crack).
But leaves . . .
In summer, the leaves form a green canopy above the yard that brings welcome shade. As the temperatures grow cooler and the leaves shift toward their signature red color, a certain amount of dread enters our conversation. Sure, they are beautiful today . . . up there . . . holding firmly to the branches.
In calendar planning, it doesn’t matter when they will start falling or when their falling will cease. They will fall based on a secret equation that only God knows, factoring in temperatures, precipitation, wind speed and direction, and an uncanny ability of a tree to heighten the frustration levels of humans who stand below with rakes, leaf blowers, and bags.
West Texas wind plays an additional role in leaf management. It enables the tree to distribute leaves to a myriad of possible resting places.
In our backyard, the patio has been deemed by the wind as the place to gather a percentage of leaves each day. And no matter how fastidiously those leaves are swept and collected, the wind never hesitates in taking leaves from around the yard and moving them to the porch to take their place.
By agreement, whoever feeds the dog is charged with sweeping and removing the leaves from the back porch. So it is that during the prime leaf harvesting season, I find myself, broom in hand, systematically gathering and disposing of leaves twice each day. And as I do, I can hear other leaves in the yard or still in the tree, laughing to themselves, knowing that all those leaves I steadfastly pursue today will be replaced by others by the time Togo’s kibble hits the bottom of the dish at the next feeding.
But I don’t care. I have come to find leaf removal on that 500+ square foot bit of concrete to be extremely satisfying. The patio has become a peaceful symbol of my life, perhaps even why I am privileged to live it.
Each day I’m presented with a bit of a mess, with some days more challenging than others. Occasionally, the leaves are a bit damp, requiring extra effort in the sweeping. On other days, the wind whips the leaves as I sweep, sending gusts along to scatter what I have carefully pulled together. Or new leaves float downward incessantly to ensure that my work is never officially completed.
It’s a little like life. Maybe a lot like life. Constant challenges surface with the promise that they won’t be the last. I have to accept that my assignment is to attend to but a small portion, doing what I can do in the time I have.
I can’t afford to worry about the leaves that settle in behind my broom or the challenges that threaten to appear tomorrow. That is not the work I was given today.
Over time, every challenge and every leaf that is mine to manage will find its way to my back porch. And as they arrive, I can rest easy knowing I will be given the time and the tools to address them.
And if some escape at the wind's will, I can feel settled knowing they weren’t mine to manage. They might even be yours. And I wouldn’t want to take that satisfaction from you.
I cannot tell you how much this resonates with me. For one, our Red Oak is most likely just like yours, except blessedly acorn- free. And our patio collects leaves by the truck load. Unfortunately I do not have Togo to inspire daily cleaning of those leaves until they actually look like truckloads.
My parallel task is doing the laundry almost daily. Everything clean and in place lends a certain feeling of peace and order, and a certain amount of control over one aspect of my life when so many other things are beyond my ability to control.
As Les said, so good! To think, how the never ending chasing of leaves leaves one feelling so human.