Leaf Dancers

I was sitting in my blue Adirondack chair down below the house one early October afternoon, taking a rare half-hour to still my busy mind and hands when I caught sight of one of those small and beautiful orange and yellow butterflies that frequent the garden that time of  year in Maine. It was floating and flitting around above my head. Suddenly my eyes focused on it more clearly. It was not a butterfly at all, but an individual leaf, twisting and turning in the wind as it made its way from tree to ground. Soon after, a group of three leaves clustered on a tiny stem appeared, twirling around and around in perfect imitation of a ballerina’s pirouette during those few seconds before making a silent landing. It joined the thousands that were swiftly covering our yard.  Clothed in nature’s costumes, they were every bit as beautiful as one of the tutu-clad dancers in Degas’ famous paintings. Their dances were just as graceful as any prima ballerina’s.  Here in my backyard, I attended my own premiere. These particular dancers’ talents required no expensive tickets or elegantly gowned patrons to appreciate their talents. Dressed rather shabbily in my old running clothes and my battered sun hat, ensconced in a faded plastic chair, I humbly witnessed a command performance of elegant artistry.

As the leaves continued to fall, it was with some chagrin that I realized I had never taken the time to watch a single leaf fall. Oh yes, I have seen leaves fall hundreds of times. I have picked them up and admired their colors. I have tried to preserve them with glycerin infusions.  I have attempted to duplicate their vibrant hues in watercolor paintings.  I have raked them and piled them and mulched them. I have walked through them and enjoyed that distinctive, autumnal sound of leaves crunching under my feet. I have watched my dogs and toddlers jump into them, and done so myself.  But watching one individual leaf waft along as it marks the end of one season and the beginning of another? That I had not done.

As I focused more closely on the leaves’ journeys, I find that they don’t always plummet to earth in dive-bomber fashion. They circled and twisted, spun and fluttered as they danced their way earthward in a forested finale. On that almost-still day, they often meandered as they followed no schedule except that of the season’s and wind’s own making. Their beauty lay not only in their form, color and texture, but in their travels, brief though they may be.

A leaf so graceful and full of movement that I mistook it for a butterfly. An oh-so-brief journey, full of twists and turns and unpredictability. A glimpse of orange and red and green as brilliant as precious topaz or garnet or peridot. Thousands of times a day this near-silent performance continues, unobserved and unappreciated. But not that particular day. That day, I sat and savored and stored away a memory.

 Its symbolism or purpose I am content to lay aside. I pull back from making obvious or subtle connections between life and seasons or the unexpected joys of focused attention.  A leaf’s journey speaks for itself without benefit of theology. It instructs through movement and timing and color and response to forces unseen. I will trust its dance.

Reflection Questions:

How can you find yourself and your faith journey in this simple story of falling leaves on an autumn afternoon?

When and how have careful observations of the commonplace revealed new insights into your awareness and perception of the Holy?