With autumn taking hold and the days of lake swimming coming to a close, I met Spider again, quickly climbing up the web among the vegetation that hangs across the small opening where I enter.   We must negotiate this again.  I stooped to gently and apologetically unhook one line of the web, anchored to a small plant overhanging the water.  Thinking I could magically re-hook it to another plant and repair the interruption, I lost sight of it against the shimmer and reflection below.  I wished Spider well. 

When I stepped down to dip my toe in the water, it was cold, but not too cold.  A glorious October morning that surely was waiting for me to float along the quiet edge of trees, feeling weightless—somewhere between heaven and Earth.  I made my way to the middle of the lake where I turned and swam towards the far end to greet Pine. 

Not too far into the swim I was taken aback by a submerged birch leaf pitched stem down, its body angled to catch the light.   Set aglow against the darkness below, the golden leaf appeared in stasis.  Neither floating nor sinking. 

Suspended in the water column, I began to imagine its journey from bud, to leaf, to release, to water, to lake floor.  How it must have felt to be a new leaf in spring—to open and unfurl and give yourself to the sun.  So many brother and sister leaves dancing in the wind together, a family of leaves each photosynthesizing—taking in carbon dioxide, making energy for the tree to grow, and returning oxygen for all of non-plant life to live.  Imagining for a moment how my own exhalation may service the tree and how a part of me, in some way, becomes energy for the tree too.  

Where is your mother?  From which tree were you born and lived and how did you know when it was time to go?  So effortlessly giving yourself to the winds of autumn, the grace of letting go and knowing when to let go.  Impermanence. 

I imagine the leaf floating on waves of air, and with the gentle pull of gravity, descending to meet the water’s surface—traveling the waves of water and wind until at last, its spongy mesophyll layer releases all the gases and gives way to early decay.  Now, more dense than water—slowly, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the leaf begins to sink—relaxing its body, flexible and pliable, accepting the embrace of the water.  I realize, if I let go of my air, I sink too.

Yet, here we are, suspended. I have found you amidst all this darkness glowing in the filtered light of the sun.  I wonder when you will meet the bed of the lake and tuck yourself among the leaves and fallen debris.  I wonder if you will see fish along the way, or maybe a snake.  I know where you are going, but it’s dark and I can’t tell you what it looks like there.