“All the trees are losing their leaves, and not one of them is worried.”
- Donald Miller
They stand, half naked with skirts of vibrant orange, bright yellow branches reaching like hands outstretched to a gray sky.
They are exuberant in the losing, brilliant with abandon, and I am both awestruck and jealous.
His use of the word whiny actually made me smile, even though (and maybe because) it was about my writing.
Criticism is what I crave right now. I need someone to correct my grammar, to straighten my crooked reasoning, to remind me not to be too precious with my posts.
What a relief it is to hear someone say, you can do better.
I want to paint like the branches, bursting in cadmium, crimson, cabernet. Iron oxide, ocher, olive, emerald.
I want to shed my words like those leaves, unafraid of what I am losing, so to let my soil mature for spring. The right words will come back to me later, when I’ve grown up a little.
We are most vivid when we’re willing to let go of our laurels.