Where the Leaves Lead — Part Two
By SherriAnne Leslie
After the Rain
Willa follows the familiar path beneath her paws, one autumn leaf at a time.
Yesterday, the rain seemed to settle into my bones.
There are days when my body simply won't cooperate, when even the thought of walking across a yard feels like more than I can manage. Yesterday was one of them.
But today, the world outside is beautiful again.
The trees are dressed in their October finest, their leaves scattered across the deck and lawn in shades of gold, amber, and rust. Even after yesterday's rain, there's something magnificent about this home and property.
The trees are dressed in their October finest, their leaves scattered across the deck and lawn in shades of gold, amber, and rust. Even after yesterday’s rain, there’s something magnificent about this home and property.
And Willa has places to go.
A Map She Knows by Heart
Willa is blind and deaf, and allergies have compromised much of her remaining sense of smell. But don't tell her she can't explore.
She knows this yard.
She knows where the fence runs, where the landscaping edging begins, where the patio meets the grass, and where the arbor stands near the pool.
These are her landmarks. Her map of a world she cannot see.
And watching her navigate it brings me more joy than I can adequately explain.
Walking Beside Willa
Ken, Willa's devoted pet papa, has a particular way of walking his girl. While his wife, Shar, has five beloved kitties, Willa is very much Daddy's girl.
She has a little braided fabric leash, pastel-colored, well-worn, and clearly loved. Ken holds it loosely as she walks, allowing her to choose her direction while maintaining that gentle connection.
I've learned to do the same.
I walk alongside her, keeping the leash relaxed.
Sometimes she stops, perhaps uncertain of where I am. A gentle shake of the leash or a reassuring pat is all she needs.
I'm right here, Willa.
And off she goes again.
Following the Leaves
Today, she's particularly interested in the fallen leaves.
She lowers her nose toward them, investigating whatever autumn has left behind. I wonder what she can still detect beneath the challenges of her allergies. Perhaps something familiar. Perhaps something entirely new.
I don't need to know.
I simply enjoy watching her discover.
Maybe it's the special education teacher in me. Maybe it's the mother who has spent years learning when to step in and when to let someone figure things out for themselves.
Or perhaps it's what living with a disabling condition has taught me.
I understand that being unable to do something on one day doesn't mean the desire to do it has disappeared.
I understand the pleasure of moving freely when your body allows it.
And I understand the importance of having someone nearby who doesn't mistake assistance for taking over.
So I let Willa explore.
We follow the perimeter. She finds the familiar edges of her world, pausing to investigate leaves and textures along the way.
When Willa Is Ready
And eventually, she tells me she's finished.
One little leg comes up.
Then comes the yawn.
I've learned her language.
That's my signal.
All done. Pick me up.
And I do.
There's no need to coax her farther, to insist on another few steps, or to measure the success of our outing by how much ground we've covered.
She's had her adventure.
And now she needs a ride.
The Lights Beyond the Rain
Last evening, despite the rain, this place offered another kind of beauty.
As daylight faded, the string lights came on automatically, casting their gentle glow against the open sky.
On clear nights, that sky reveals dozens of constellations, their light reaching down across the trees and lawn like a promise of brightness for tomorrow.
Last night, the rain obscured much of that brilliance.
But the lights still came on.
And I found myself thinking about the stars beyond the clouds, whether I could see them or not.
Knowing When to Carry Each Other
She doesn’t need me to lead every step.
She needs me to walk beside her.
Today, Willa is back outside, following the familiar boundaries of her world, finding her way through fallen leaves with a little pastel leash connecting us.
She doesn't need me to lead every step.
She needs me to walk beside her.
To notice when she's uncertain.
To trust what she knows.
And to recognize when she's had enough.
I watch Willa make her way through the yard, following the familiar edges of a world she knows by heart.
She explores until she's had enough. Then comes the lifted leg, the little yawn, and the unmistakable message: I'm ready.
And I pick her up.
There's no disappointment in that moment. No insistence that she go a little farther. She's already gone as far as she can, and that's enough.
I think about the journeys we take, the paths we learn to navigate, and the days when even familiar ground feels difficult beneath our feet.
Perhaps knowing our limits isn't the opposite of courage. Perhaps it's part of what makes the journey possible.
And perhaps love is knowing when to walk beside someone, when to offer a little reassurance, and when to simply pick them up.
Because when the journey becomes overwhelming, sometimes the most beautiful thing we can do for one another is carry each other home.
