Hilda Grahnat
I love writing letters on leaves. Every year around this time, I used pick a lovely fall leaf, and write a note on it. Being a lover of mail and the written word, it just seemed like fun. In the fall, one of my dear friends from childhood would always open an envelope to find a colorful leaf with sharpie scribbles on it. I'm not sure exactly why I did it, but I knew this long-time friend would understand.
The funny thing about my love for fall leaves is the irony in it. I hate change. I cry almost every time I cut my hair. My clothes tear to shreds or go out of style before I quit wearing them - note, I still own and wear a pair of pants from the seventh grade at 23 - I own 3 colors of nail polish: hot pinky - orange, nude/lightish pink and clear. Why? Because I fake the change - I rotate 3 shades in and out so it "looks" like I change. I have the same car I drove at fifteen and sincerely don't want a knew one. And in my old house, the wall over my bed stayed blank for two years because I was looking for the perfect thing to hang over it and if I drilled holes in the wall, I couldn't change it if I didn't like it.
I have a new blank wall. Come see. Help me drill holes. And best example of all? I cannot let go of people. Memories. Change. I am the roots, not the leaves.
You may think I'm crazy, and, yes, my hatred is a bit extreme, but who really loves change - transience - temporary?
The leaves that I wrote letters on, that crunch under your feet as you walk to work, that act as decor on your mantles, that make for hours of fun when in piles - those leaves are proof that we can't escape change, but that it can still be a beautiful thing. Has death ever looked so lovely? Change is part of this world, and the desire for something eternal is just another reason to believe we weren't made for this.
