When Leaves Fall
I went off the grid last weekend. My husband and I spent hours in the car, getting out of the city, into the woods, and away from it all. The leaves had just started to turn, and I was disappointed. I'd been looking forward to this getaway for weeks, planning for the hours we'd spend surrounded by reds, yellows and oranges. Instead, we were met with wide swaths of green, in nearly every direction. Here and there, we found the colors I'd sought peeking through the branches, but I couldn't help being let down by a dream that didn't deliver.
It wasn't what I'd hoped for, but I was already there, among the trees, with my camera and husband, determined to explore and make the best of our time. As we drove and stomped through hills and trails, I stopped looking at what was directly in front of me. Instead, I turned my eyes upward and — even better — toward my feet. Soon, I started noticing details I hadn't seen before: The way a fallen leaf settled on a log, fascinating fungi growing straight out of a rock, the curve of a road as it disappeared into the woods.
Our drive back was more beautiful than our journey down; more colors had started to turn by then. On Monday, after a long day of work, I uploaded my pictures from the weekend. There, among dozens of shots that were green, green and more green, I found the picture below, which I had forgotten. Tangled among raised roots, a jumble of golden leaves, there to remind me that beauty often thrives in the humblest of locales.
Where do you search for beauty? When you find it, is it on a large scale or in hidden details?