Lessons from the turning leaves

Shin Freedman200

I have always loved fall. Even now, the season carries a pull that I cannot quite name, something between memory and promise.

During my college years, autumn was more than a change of weather — it was a festival of energy and possibility. I darted from one campus to another to attend book readings, lectures and fall festivals. Any excuse for a gathering was enough.

When I was not hurrying across the city, I wandered beneath the ginkgo trees of central Seoul's Gwanghwamun, their fan-shaped yellow leaves spinning like tiny dancers before settling on the ground. I remember stretching out my hand to catch one mid-air, as if I could hold on to youth itself. Such was life when I was 21 — eager, restless and unaware of how fleeting those days would seem.

Years later, when I first visited the United States, New England’s autumn stunned me. From the window of an airplane, the land below looked as though an artist had spilled every hue from the palette — amber, russet, crimson — across the hills and valleys. Against the steadfast green of pines, the brilliance was overwhelming. On the ground, the sight was no less extravagant: maples blazing with fire, oaks turning copper, birches trembling in gold. It was as if the whole landscape had decided to declare its glory before surrendering to winter. I thought then, as I still do now, that autumn in New England is nature’s most extravagant gift.

To welcome the season, I often gather its tokens: bright orange pumpkins, pots of chrysanthemums in burgundy and gold, cornstalks tied at the door, even a bale of hay. The rituals are simple, yet they remind me that life moves in rhythm with the earth. The air sharpens, the sky deepens into a limitless blue and I feel more awake, more in tune with myself. Summer has its pleasures, but autumn speaks more directly to my spirit, perhaps because it mirrors the later chapters of life.

Poets have long found wisdom in autumn’s transformations. A.E. Housman, watching cherry trees in bloom, reminded us that beauty fades quickly and must be seized while it lasts. Nature, in its grandeur and fragility, reflects our own brief span. The falling leaf is not merely a sign of decline but also of renewal. Are trees dead when they shed their leaves? Of course not. Their life is held within, invisible yet enduring. Renewals happen quietly, from the inside out.

Human lives, like trees, move through seasons. In spring, we burst forward, impatient for beginnings. In summer, we labor and build, sometimes chasing more than we need. In autumn, we cling to what must pass, reluctant to release it. And in winter, we resist the stillness, mistaking rest for an end rather than a preparation for renewal.

The tree teaches otherwise. Each season has its purpose: to grow, to gather, to release and to rest. If we could live with the tree’s patience — rooted yet yielding, unafraid of change — we might find peace in the rhythm of our days.

Philip Larkin once observed that trees perform “their yearly trick of looking new.” That illusion is both hope and warning. Trees remind us of resilience, yet they also underscore our mortality. Unlike them, we cannot start afresh each year. But perhaps that is why their renewal feels so miraculous: an invitation to accept time’s passing with grace, and to let each season, in its fullness, be enough.

Shin Freedman is a retired academic who now writes about aging, solitude, technology and the quiet revolutions of modern life.