Here we all are. A skin of leaves. Temporary and forever shifting. Crumpled on top of each other in a random muddle that has a vague order where breeze nudges us into available spaces. A little pocket that fits our shape. Jiggled until we're nestled.
And from this little niche we can resist the tug of change until the turmoil of a greater gust forces all to find a new state of equilibrium. Such upheaval is dreaded and yet can be thrilling.
The neighbours we lean against arrive through the vaguaries of chance like we did. Usually those beside us have fallen from the same or neighbouring trees lending our community a distinct character that can look like choice. There is comfort in the pattern of similar backgrounds.
But at times you may be carried further and come to rest amongst those of a different tone who curl in a different way. Here there are still places to fit in where your presence adds something to the community of the fallen.
And likewise, the space next to you can be filled by stranger leaves as well as your own kind. They can help you shine. And the mutual support remains the same.
In the wide view we are lost as a speck in an ocean. Standing out as something special is an impossible task ever harder as our view widens further. But stay close, focus on the detail and the special in each of us becomes so evident. A chance to be unique selves of our own colour and texture, shape and form.
Leaves of comfort.
Even though we are not what we once were. Drained of vibrance and cast adrift there is still a chance to radiate. Still room for the individual character we all hold within us to glow amongst the backdrop of our fellow leaves.
Together we blend into the colour of our culture but we are not homogenous. That idea would be a mistake of perspective.
Each and every one of us who ever lay together, or ever will, is different. There is no ideal to chase, no perfect.
Comfort comes through accepting that imperfections are nothing more than character. Both ours and those of others. There is no shame in difference just interest.
We carry our scars as stories.
We will be gone soon enough with the hope that there will be others to follow. The land we lie on follows a different pace of change and perhaps it would miss its skittish skin of leaves.
For now, whichever tree you came from, welcome.
