Time To Rake The Leaves

My father was very particular about the outer appearance of our New England Colonial home. He regularly engaged in the hard work of necessary duties (commandeering my brothers when they were old enough): shoveling snow off the front steps and sidewalk in the winter, planting flowers and caring for the new grass in the spring, mowing the lawn, cutting the hedges, and sweeping the sidewalk in front of our house (who does that anymore?) in the summer, and raking and burning the leaves in the fall.

One of the things I loved most in fall was the day my dad decided the side yard had become an ocean of fallen leaves that he could no longer tolerate. It was time to rake it up. The moment he finished raking, we kids were allowed to run across the yard as fast as we could and jump high into (to my child-sized eyes) the enormously gigantic and colorful mounds of crackly softness. The colors were so beautiful that I wanted to meld with each one of them: deep russets, browns of all shades, vibrant yellows, bronzes, and golds.

Once in a while there were some green leaves there too. I always felt sorry for them. It seemed to me that they were born too late to enjoy the fullness and excitement of the spring and summer and died well before their time on earth was done. One year I actually, but unsuccessfully, attempted to Elmer-glue three of my favorite green leaves back onto the tree.

Once our leaf play was concluded (that is, when my father told us to “get the hell out of the leaves”) the next big excitement was going into the house, getting potatoes, covering them securely in aluminum foil, and placing them very deep in our leaf pyres. You see, way back in the day, people were allowed to burn leaves.

Our leaf-inspired igloo quickly became our potato–enhanced fiery teepee.

It took every ounce of patience we had to wait until the fire completely died out and we were allowed to recover and devour the yummy and delicious foil covered treasures left behind. (It was worth the wait. Best potatoes ever!)

With all the thinking I have been doing over the past few days since I posted about my resistance to looking at what is between my son and I and with the help the Agape International Spiritual Center in Los Angeles yesterday (thank you Reverend Michael!), I decided that what happened between my son and me a few days ago was right on schedule.

Because fall is the perfect time to notice the fallen and no longer useful between my son and me, rake it all up, and let it burn.

The problem with that is that the space where the beautiful, inviting, and familiar relational dynamics once stood becomes empty. Yes, maybe there are beliefs and ideas I have about our relationship that are dead and no longer serve their purpose, but individually I have grown to love each and every facet of their individual and unique color, texture, and smell.


And honestly, I just don’t know if I am up to the hard work it requires to collect all that we have discarded into one enormous and colorful mound when I am accustomed to the comfort and ease of picking up any one of the beautifully dead dynamics and admiring it simply because it used to be alive in our relationship.

And it is especially difficult not to pick up the still vibrant and, in my mind, pre-maturely perished without trying to somehow re-attach it to our shared tree. Even Super Glue wouldn’t do it.

However, spending a childhood experiencing seasonal changes and living in the unique environment that each season brings with it, I have learned a little something about birth and death through the story of nature.

Like my childhood friends, the Maple and the Oak trees, I will take comfort in knowing that just because some of the dynamics between my son and I withered and died doesn’t mean the roots of our relationship have perished as well. I’m going to trust that there is freedom in the acceptance of what has fallen away, in the gathering and honoring of what once was, and in the release of it back into the universe.

The empty space left behind by the fiery cleansing may feel strange, maybe even awkward and uncomfortable, but it can also provide us with a spaciousness where something new can bud and blossom between us.

And if we are trusting and patient enough, I am betting that once the fires have subsided and made way for the new, we will uncover a few yummy and delicious aluminum foil covered treasures.