I was born to fly.
You may think that odd coming from a leaf but it’s what we live for, it’s why we rustle, it’s our quivering of anticipation for the moment when we’re freed to explore on our own.
But I should tell you, getting to the Big Dance, and it is a dance, is not easy.
To begin with, I had to start out as a bud pushing out of what looks like a dead branch. It seems so barren and mildly embarrassing to be out there alone at the end of a stick. It’s also kind of boring to be a bud because you just sit there for the longest time. (Boring unless you’re on a lower branch almost begging for a deer to come by and snuff out your dream of flight with one quick crunch.)
Eventually, I became strong enough to begin unfurling which allows me to introduce myself to the Many on my branch of soon-to-be green leaves. For I had now become part of the Many since we do pretty much everything together and at the same time. Mostly, we rustle. But sometimes if a wind comes, we’d go from rustling to flapping and occasionally smacking into each other, sometimes painfully.
Another thing we do together, especially if the air gets really hot for a long time, is to curl up and start to crisp up because our branch has cut off the water supply. Luckily, a good rain will take care of that and soon we’re back to rustling.
My personal pet peeve is when a bird lands on the branch above me, looks around, then with one bounce of its tail, shits all over me. Of course, by the time it hits me, it’s already starting to dry. Which means it’s going to ooze down to my tip and stop. I’m now aimed straight down, upside down. For a time, I’m no longer part of the Many. I’ve been seemingly ostracized, reduced to swinging back and forth as the Ugly Duckling of the branch. Clearly, there’ll be no rustling for me until a good hard rain comes to douse me off.
Time goes on until the Many begin to feel a stirring, a sense that change is afoot. Why else would one after another of us slowly evolve from green to a bright almost iridescent red? Why would other leaves on other trees abandon their green for a clarion yellow or a soft-spoken orange?
Then, as I watch the Many slowly lose their new coats of color to a singular brown and listen to their rustle turn to a harsh, brittle clatter, I realize that I am on the cusp of flight.
Finally comes the moment I’ve been waiting for. The Fall.
Actually, that’s a misnomer. I don’t fall. I soar. I cartwheel and pirouette up and over, sometimes slowly by myself, sometimes in a dizzying flurry as part of the Many.
And by the way, I don’t “fall off” the branch. I’m gently released though I can’t tell you whose decision it is, my branch or the tree itself. But I can tell you that, while the Many appear to be innocently rustling, we are also intently watching to see who will be first and who is next, wondering when is it my turn.
Finally (finally!) I feel myself releasing, no longer rustling. With a wave to what’s left of the Many, I begin to float gently downward, slowly turning to look around to see what I can see. Suddenly I stop for an instant because I notice you staring at me. Time seems to slow down as we are quietly mesmerized by what we are sharing.
In that moment, I’m surprised at how I’m able to suspend in mid-air. It’s sort of symbolic of the sensation of flight itself, delicious but, at the same time, kind of perplexing.
Then off I go. Twirling up past my branch, up past my tree, to find out what’s next.