The brilliance of letting go

This week was quintessential New England autumn, the kind of days when I say to myself, to my neighbors I see outside, “This is why we live here. For days like this.” The air was crisp and clean with a hint of the cold that is to come. Weather that urges me to stay outside, to walk the dog another half mile or so, to sit on the stairs outside my house and finish my conversation with my sister in the golden hour. After so much rain and humidity this summer, the brisk, dry air offered relief. The coziness of a much-loved sweatshirt and jeans for a dog walk in the afternoon, the welcome warmth of a hot cup of tea at night to settle before bed, the letting go of the heat and heaviness of summer. Fall is the coziest, most welcome of seasons for me.

Fall is the last brilliance before winter. A spectacular show of colors from burgundy to scarlet, ochre to saffron, citrine to amber; the autumn sky is ablaze with foliage. As those leaves fall, they provide a satisfying crunch underfoot and a subtle scent of fall—that earthy, musky smell. What we forget as we breathe in that woodsy aroma and marvel at the trees’ glorious display is that this is what it looks like to let go. The turn from green to fire colors is the leaves getting ready to fall from those branches and return to dirt. That autumnal smell is the leaves, trees, and other plants decomposing. In a few short weeks, the trees will be bare, the ground covered with the brittle, broken remains of once vivid leaves. Cold will harden that ground, small icy crystals of frost will glisten on the natural debris, and in fewer and fewer places, snow will provide a frozen blanket from December through March. This is the part of the year I love the most. Of course, I delight in the budding and blossoming of spring, the promise of new beginnings and the fruition of hope. But it is the coziness of autumn, the hunkering down and bracing for the cold of winter that captures and enlivens my spirit.

Letting go, then, can be brilliant and beautiful, cozy and warm.

Z called me this week. I was just about to head upstairs to read for a bit before bed and my phone rang. (Okay, it vibrated. But that just doesn’t sound right?) Does he know how delighted I am to see his number on my screen? How my heart leaps to hear his voice? To know he has taken this time out of his day to call me? He tells me he is sitting in the common area on his floor and I can imagine this space, remembering it from the drop off—now more than three weeks ago. I can envision him, see him in my mind, imagine that face I saw every day for 18.5 years and now, I have seen only once in three weeks.

How is this beautiful? Vibrant? Cozy? Warm?

He starts to talk. And talk. He tells me about his involvement with the online student newspaper. He has had two music reviews accepted and been given the go-ahead for a three-part, op-ed on elevators (Yes, elevators. He is a mechanical engineer, remember). He goes on excitedly about a test he has coming up. He explains that it’s the first test in this class, so he is unsure what to expect. What might the professor ask? What will he be looking for in the responses? Does Z know enough to perform well? He shares about an issue he has encountered with bike storage. And, of course, the solutions he feels are obvious and relatively simple to implement. We talk for several minutes about the avenues he might pursue to get this addressed.

Friends whose names I am now starting to remember, details starting to fill in and attach to those names, are becoming part of the narrative of his life. He is going to Target to buy Jenga. With a friend he has made who has a car. He tells me about why he is so happy with his dorm. The reasons why the dining hall on his campus is superior to other dining halls. The different foods he has eaten throughout the week. That he has started eating breakfast. Because: omelet stations. I ask him if we can bring him apples or cider donuts when we go apple picking this weekend. He says he would like to come. My eyes tear up. Of course. Because he wants to see us. Because I will get to hug him, to see that sparkle in his eyes as he shares something else new.

I was told by my friend and mentor, Dr. G., that the sadness would be intense but short. That it would be replaced with the sweetness of a new relationship.

And there is the brilliance.

There is the warmth.

In his voice. His excitement.

This letting go of being a child in this town, this house and coming in to his own in his college, his young adulthood. His choice to call me and tell me about his current day-to-day in college life. A life I only know through him. His choice to spend time with us.

And so, I am here marveling at the fiery display of his new life—the deep reds, the dazzling yellows, the rich oranges. And knowing that this new life also represents the ending, the transformation of the life he had here, with us.

Reminding myself that it is beautiful to let go.

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.