Where the Leaves Lead

By SherriAnne Leslie

Many days, life demands more than my body has to give.

Today has been one of those days.

Three pet care jobs. Business responsibilities that seem to multiply faster than I can check them off. Messages to answer, schedules to coordinate, and a to-do list that doesn't seem to understand the meaning of enough.

And Damien—my name for the cervical dystonia that has occupied my body for more than twenty years—is particularly angry today.

As if that weren't enough, one of my dearest friends, Tink, underwent surgery this morning. I've been carrying worry for her since her most current and concerning health problems began around her birthday a month ago. The kind of worry that settles somewhere beneath your ribs and follows you from one task to the next.

There are days when I wonder how much one person is supposed to carry.

And yet, here I am.

Standing on a beautiful gray wooden deck with white railings, overlooking a brick patio and a backyard that seems to stretch forever.

I'm at Willa's, in Broadview Heights, Ohio.

One of my favorite places in the world.

And October has outdone herself.

A Little White Dog Named Willa

Willa is a rescue dog who is both blind and deaf.

She's a little white sweetheart with wonderfully expressive ears, a dark nose, and a face that can look both utterly serious and completely delighted.

She shares her home with five cats—Moxie, Z, Vera, Bert, and Howie—a collection of personalities that could easily provide enough material for an entire book.

There's always something happening in a household with six animals.

Food bowls to fill. Water to refresh. Litter boxes to tend. Someone waiting for attention. Someone else observing the entire operation with the unmistakable expression of a supervisor who is unimpressed with management.

And then there's Willa.

Willa loves the sunshine.

I've watched her stretch out on the deck, settling into a patch of warmth as though she's discovered the most luxurious accommodations in the world.

Today, she's outside with me.

I find myself thinking about how differently the two of us experience this afternoon.

Willa cannot see the brilliant colors spreading across the trees. She cannot hear the breeze moving through the branches or the leaves stirring overhead.

But she can feel the warmth of the sun.

And I suspect she appreciates it every bit as much as I do.

There is something lovely about sharing a moment without needing to experience it in exactly the same way.

October's Masterpiece

Before me stands a tree that looks almost like a layer cake.

Green. Crimson. Brilliant orange. Yellow.

Its colors are arranged in such a remarkable scatter among the layers that I can't imagine an artist improving upon them.

Behind it, the taller trees have made their own seasonal decisions. Some remain stubbornly green, while others have surrendered to gold, amber, and rust.

Near the deck, hydrangeas have deepened into wine-colored clusters. Pink blossoms linger along the railing, seemingly unaware that autumn has arrived.

Below, a brick patio opens onto a broad green lawn stretching toward the woods.

And the leaves.

Oh, the leaves.

Near the patio, they're scattered sparingly, as though someone has dropped a handful of confetti.

Farther out, they become more plentiful.

They remind me of rose petals scattered along a bridal path, inviting someone toward something wonderful.

By the time they reach the woods, they practically carpet the ground.

There's a creek nearby. Down the hill, a barn with horses. I've even spotted a fox here before.

It's the sort of place where I can stand still for a moment and discover something I hadn't noticed on my last visit.

And today, I need that.

The Things That Ask Nothing of Me

I take in the colors, but the beauty of this place goes far beyond what I can see.

There's the breeze brushing my skin.

The scent of damp earth and musty fallen leaves.

The cool grass beneath my bare feet.

The warmth of the sunlight finding its way through the clouds.

The sound of the trees moving gently overhead.

And Willa, content in her own little world of sunshine.

For a few moments, nothing here asks me to be more than I am.

No invoices.

No deadlines.

No decisions.

No explanations.

No expectation that I should somehow manage to accomplish eight hours of work in a body that may give me only a fraction of that.

I don't have to be a business owner, a problem solver, or a woman desperately trying to catch up with everything her body won't allow her to finish.

I can simply be here.

I have spent enough years navigating pain, disability, loss, recovery, and uncertainty to recognize that peace isn't always something we achieve after the work is finished.

Sometimes it arrives in the middle of the unfinished work.

Sometimes it comes while someone we love is undergoing surgery, while our bodies are protesting, while our responsibilities are waiting impatiently for our attention.

Sometimes it comes in the company of a little white dog who has no idea how beautiful the leaves are.

And doesn't need to.

Where the Leaves Lead

The difficult things don't disappear because the leaves are beautiful.

Tink is still on my mind.

Damien is still angry.

The business still needs my attention.

Tomorrow's responsibilities aren't going anywhere.

And I know that when I step back inside, there will be cats to check on, bowls to tend, and all the ordinary little responsibilities that come with caring for someone else's beloved animals.

But neither is this moment going anywhere—not if I take the time to recognize it.

I look out across the lawn again.

The scattered leaves lead toward the woods, where the trees stand in every shade of autumn.

Willa is enjoying the sunshine.

And I'm reminded that the life I'm working so hard to build is also the life I'm supposed to be living.

Not someday, when everything is finished.

Not when the crippling pain finally lets up.

Not when every message has been answered and every item on the list has been checked off.

Now.

Right here.

On an October afternoon in Ohio, with a little white dog beside me and a thousand beautiful leaves leading toward the woods.

Today, amid everything demanding my attention, October has offered me something extraordinary.

A reminder that I am still capable of feeling wonder.

And perhaps, for today, the most important thing on my to-do list is remembering to notice it.