The Leaves Are Always Changing
I enjoy living in a place where I can observe the seasons. They remind me 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 underway. I’ve swapped my light coat for a heavier one and begun to adjust my outlook as well. The landscape is dull now—colorful leaves have fallen, and snow has yet to blanket 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 ask myself this question every fall and again in late winter. But whenever I feel this uncertainty, all I have to do is hike through the woods to see that the beauty never left—it only transformed.
Cold weather makes me more introspective, and that shift affects my photography. I find myself using a macro lens more often, viewing the world on a cozy, intimate scale. The modest subjects I overlooked in busier seasons now catch my eye in this altered landscape, stripped of colorful flowers and insects. Leaves are the exception—I am always captivated by their transformation through time, from burgeoning bud to delicate death.
I recently visited Springville Marsh Boardwalk, pausing to photograph dried leaves still clinging to their branches like ghosts haunting their houses. They resembled ceramic sculptures, each uniquely curled and matte in color. I imagined the boardwalk as an aisle through an art gallery, with leaves positioned elegantly on pedestal branches. Sunlight illuminated parts of them, while their irregular shapes cast soft shadows. A gust of wind rattled the stiff, skeletal leaves, producing a strangely soothing sound.
I gazed at each one through my camera lens, studying their thickened cells, protruding veins, and jagged edges—wondering about their lives. The first sign of summer’s end is when green leaves, especially those in the understory, begin to look like Swiss cheese, the handiwork of feasting insects. It’s a bittersweet moment, reminding me of middle age, when life begins to take its toll and many of us give parts of ourselves to work, children, or some other selfless endeavor. There’s a noticeable shift in energy then. Soon, autumn arrives, and the leaves retire from photosynthesis, marking the occasion with breathtaking color. Having served their purpose, they take flight into the unknown, and what remains is recycled into new life.
I am comforted by these natural cycles. A big-picture view of life on Earth allows us to appreciate the small parts that make the whole—like the cells that form our bodies. Organisms may have different roles, but whether they are aware of it or not, all are connected 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 are at the mercy of forces beyond our control, just like the seasons. Four and a half billion years ago, a cosmic collision tilted Earth’s axis. Because of that impact, birds migrate, bears hibernate, leaves fall, and we scrape ice from our windshields for nearly half the year.
