The Leaves Are Always Changing
I enjoy living in a part of the world where I can observe the seasons; they’re a reminder that everything is temporary, often cyclical, and that life and death are at work simultaneously all around us. We can never grow too comfortable with how things are, learning instead to anticipate and adapt to change.
The transition from fall to winter is well under way. I’ve swapped my light coat for a heavier one and have begun to change my outlook as well. The landscape is dull now that the colorful leaves have fallen and snow hasn’t yet blanketed everything in white. Photographers might begin to feel restless. The world appears to have lost some of its beauty, what will I photograph now? I’ll ask myself this question in fall and again in late winter. Whenever I feel this uncertainty, all I have to do is hike through the woods to instantly see that the beauty never left, just transformed.
I’m more introspective in colder weather, which has an affect on my photography. I find myself using a macro lens more to view the world at a cozy, intimate scale. The modest subjects I overlooked in the busier seasons now catch my eye in this altered landscape free of colorful flowers and insects. Leaves are the exception, I’m always captivated by these vascular organs and their transformation through time. They’re picturesque from burgeoning bud to delicate death.
I visited Springville marsh boardwalk recently, pausing along the way to photograph dried leaves that still clung to their branches like ghosts haunting their houses. I noticed how closely they resembled ceramic sculptures, each one uniquely curled and colored with a matte finish. I imagined the boardwalk as an aisleway through an art gallery, with leaves positioned elegantly on pedestal branches. The sun illuminated parts of them but their irregular shapes left room for shadows. A gust of wind rattled the stiff, skeletal leaves, producing a strangely soothing sound.
I gazed at each individual through my camera lens, focusing on their thickened cells, protruding veins, and jagged edges, while thinking about their life. One of the first signs that tells me summer is ending is when the green leaves (especially those in the understory) start looking more like Swiss cheese, the handiwork of feasting insects. It’s a bittersweet moment that reminds me of middle-age, when life begins to take its toll and many of us choose to give a part of ourselves to work, kids, or some other selfless endeavor. There’s a noticeable shift in energy during that time. Soon, autumn arrives and the leaves retire from their photosynthesizing, an occasion marked with breathtaking colors. Having served their purpose, the leaves take flight into the unknown and what remains of them is recycled into new life.
I am comforted by these natural cycles. A big picture view of life on earth lets us further appreciate the small parts which make the whole, like the cells that create our body. Organisms may have different roles but, whether they’re aware of it or not, are all connected to each other through a shared environment. What unknown life might we be a critical part of?
This existence is the perfect enigma, seemingly simple yet infinitely complex. None of us have all the answers, we’re at the mercy of something beyond our control, just like with the seasons. In a collision four and a half billion years ago, Earth’s axis tilted, and thanks to that impact, birds migrate, bears hibernate, leaves fall, and we scrape ice from our windshields for nearly half the year.
