AUTUMN is my favourite time of year. Whether I am driving along the road or walking through the Falls Park, I find myself absorbed by nature’s abundance. The trees glow with gold, copper and russet, while fallen leaves lay a golden carpet beneath my feet. Even a journey becomes an invitation to slow down, look around and pay attention.
The Falls, for me, is the place to be in what some folk call the fall. There is something fitting about that. Here, in the heart of West Belfast, the trees offer a quiet lesson that I seem to need again and again: It is okay to let go.
Watching a leaf loosen its grip, I wonder about the things I am still holding. An old hurt. A resentment rehearsed so often that it feels like part of my identity. A disappointment. A version of myself that no longer fits. Sometimes I carry these things without noticing their weight, until a walk among the trees reminds me that I could put something down.
The trees shed their leaves with a grace I admire. A leaf turns in the air, catches a breeze and settles gently on the ground. There is an ease about its falling that invites me to soften my own grip.
Of course, I trust that spring will bring new leaves. I have witnessed that renewal throughout my life. Yet when I try to apply the same trust to my own circumstances, doubt appears. What will happen if I release this familiar burden? Who will I be without it? Can I welcome something I cannot yet see?
In mindfulness practice, doubt can become an opening towards awakening. The greater the doubt, the greater the awakening, the deeper the invitation to look closely. I find that liberating. My uncertainty gives me something to explore, honestly. I can acknowledge it and still take a small step towards freedom.
Letting go takes practice. Some days I manage a little, other days I discover that I have picked the same resentment up again. Then I begin again. The autumn trees make generous companions in this work. Their branches become lighter gradually, leaf by leaf.
The breath offers another teacher. As I breathe out, I can allow my shoulders to soften and loosen my hold on yesterday. As I breathe in, I meet the life that is here now. Pain may still need care, and hurt may need time, but I can give myself room to breathe around it.
There is no going back to change what has happened. There is, however, this moment, and the possibility of meeting it with a little more kindness.
Walking home through the Falls Park, I carry that possibility with me. Leaves rustle beneath my shoes. Above me, branches open to the sky. Nature is teaching through its ordinary changes, asking nothing of me except that I notice.
Perhaps today I can release one small burden and feel the space it leaves. Perhaps, like the trees, I can let something new unfold, in the knowledge there’s no going back.
