I love driving up the mountain with Helen. Occasionally, we’ll make the sojourn just the two of us, leaving the boys at home to soak up the sun in the backyard. On the way up, she loves to be my co-pilot, sitting with her back to me, right side leaning against the seatback, her chin resting on the doorframe, ears flapping. I can hear the slapping of her jowls as the wind rushes by, her mouth slightly ajar to gather the explosion of scents.
The trees are my favorite part of this journey, their colors highlighting the season. It’s November now, and we’re heading up to our new favorite place, Incinerator Ridge. This is a quietly stunning part of the forest. With relatively little effort, you can experience breathtaking views off both sides of the mountain. But what is really amazing is the canopy created by the trees. After a brief hike to take in the views, we settle under the gentle cover of a stand of trees, looking out over Rose Canyon Lake and Willow Canyon.
It’s here that I allow my mind the space to really study the trees and their leaves. I’ve always envisioned trees as protectors, strong and brave, but as I look — and think — more closely, what I really see is my relationship with Helen. Together, we make up the tree. We nourish each other, we protect each other, we sway in the breeze together, we grow together, we change together, we weather storms together. But I also understand that for the tree to survive, the leaves must change color and eventually gently float down to the forest floor.
In deciduous trees, this process is called abscission. As days become shorter and sunshine less abundant, food production slows and then stops. The orange and red pigments replace the greens, and the leaf’s autumnal colors appear. While this is happening, connections between the leaf’s stem and the branch weakens. Over time, the weight of the leaf is too much, and its stem detaches from the branch, and the leaf drifts to the ground, where it will become a nourishing and protective mulch. Within hours, the tree has released a salve to heal the scar left by the leaf’s stem, protecting itself from infection and invasion. This is all part of the arc of growth, maturity, and renewal.
When I see the trees, I think of my journey with Helen. She is starting to drop some leaves, as well. Helen loves to ride in the car, but loading is much more difficult now. Instead of a bounding leap into the backseat, we do a team lift – she concentrates on the front, and I take care of the back. I’ve also adapted the way I communicate with her. A quiet whistle or call to come get a cookie is no longer sufficient. I move into her line of sight, make eye contact, and wave the cookie to alert her to the yumminess on offer.
Helen’s cognitive function is also faltering. Although it’s well managed with medication, it is a clear sign that she is aging before my eyes. Those early evenings of sundowning, when she hid behind the couch or frantically dug holes to nest in the backyard, were difficult. I’m thankful that we’ve slowed this progression, and this leaf is hanging on.
Although our tree has some blemishes, we soothe those scars with the joy we still find in being together. Her leaves are brilliant reds and golds now, and more will eventually fall, but together, we are still strong. We have many more adventures on the horizon, be they 15-minute walks in the neighborhood or two-mile hikes along the ridgeline. When those are no longer an option, we’ll have rides in the car and trips to Dairy Queen or OK Feed. We’ll have nights to snuggle in her soft, fluffy dog bed. We’ll have strolls through the house with her cold nose gently prodding my left calf. And when those leaves fall, we’ll rest together, her chin in my hand while I caress her soft cinnamon ear. We will find ways to love and protect each other until the last leaf falls.
Nature assures me there is an arc to life, that all our leaves will eventually drift on a cold winter wind to the frozen ground. But not yet. We have joys to discover, adventures to take, and treats to eat. There is much to be done — and loved — before the winter comes.
