Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. So much so that when I was ten I wrote a story that won an award and was published in the local newspaper (a pretty big deal for the fifth grader that I was), and it started with a description of walking through the brown crunchy leaves.
Though I detest cold weather and miss the sun when the gray skies of late autumn are all around and feel a bit depressed to see skeletal trees, to me, there is also something magical about the changing of seasons. I never feel fully alive quite like when there’s a shift in the air, in the way the world looks outside.
Right when we’re on the precipice of a new season, the world seems a bit brighter to me. More full of hope. And I think we need more of that. I know I do.
So much of our news and our climate shifts seem so dismal and bleak. The wars and the human rights violation and inhumane treatment of one another, our depersonalized way or relating and communicating in this techy realm…
So—in pursuit of taking better care of myself and lowering my cortisol levels (always a struggle for this PTSD addled brain), I’ve taken to spending more time outside.
I remember the teachings of my Native American elders and mentors—
“Go outside and spend some time on the land. “
So, I have been doing that. Unplugged.
And I feel calmer. Recently, I have sat by water, both at the ocean and at a large freshwater lake in the Land Between the Lakes.
It is centering and calming. Water is intensely healing.
I marvel and delight, watching squirrels playing and running back and forth, climbing trees. I have taken in the pelicans swooping in and diving into the ocean to catch their breakfast. I have stood in the quiet majestic beauty and stillness of a heron at the beach…so still, I wondered if it was a figment of my imagination.
I knew that time outside, walks and meditations, lowered cortisol. I’ve read that, at times when I needed to calm my adrenals and stress hormones from pumping on overdrive.
But, sometimes, though you know this, you can’t quite imagine just how large of a difference this makes, impacting how you feel.
I’ve slowed down, grown more pensive and meditative.
In doing so, I’ve also started to notice the beauty that I was often too busy or distracted to hone in on.
In Clarksville, at the Austin Peay campus, there are still trees with colorful foliage, some vibrant yellows and deep reds. Fall stretches out, longer in the south, and I am taking it all in, as I walk from my car to my office and across campus to my classes.
I have also resumed my regular practice of yoga, both the hot kind in the studio and at home, on my matt, using youtube videos and Bodi workouts. I’m heeding the advice of trauma experts that movements and exercise that involve meditation and getting back into your body are important somatic healing work for those who have experienced trauma.
And tomorrow, I’ll resume EMDR therapy, working to release more trauma from body. Though it is hard work and exhausting, it is worth it. I recall what a tremendous impact this had on feelin lighter, releasing trauma from my body when I first did it in mid-2020.
Much has happened since then. More trauma and more bad experiences that shook me to my core, that I will work through, to address the scars. And where and how my body continues to carry the traumatic experiences I have had.
My healing journey is an ever winding path, sometimes rocky and, at points, I feel myself slipping. But, much like the journey of life, I’m trying to slow down and process, enjoying the ride. Because I also see my growth and evolution. And when I take care of myself and feel the healing difference, I feel stronger and resilient, powerful and more deeply in love with myself and how I care for myself.
I think about my family members and some friends, who refuse to address their wounds and hurt, and I am thankful that though it is arduous and often times exhausting, I am proud of myself for moving forward, for it is far worse to stay stagnant.
I sometimes feel like I’m climbing a mountain, tremendously out of shape, huffing and puffing, moving very slowly, but the important thing is—I keep moving. In doing so, I am breaking intergenerational cycles of dysfunction this way and, in slowing down and caring for myself more intensively, I find that I am so very thankful for my life—so different from my family members’ and how they chose to lives and to die.
I reflect on this as I drive my trustworthy, fuel efficient Toyota Camry hybrid….go to my work, doing a profession I worked hard to be able to do, and that I enjoy, making a difference in the lives of my students and through my writing…as I go home to my lovely brick home on a historic street in Kentucky, surrounded by a lovely group of neighbors who care for me. Without snow, since I live in the south now…As I receive my texts from beloved friends, my chosen family…
I take it all in. And in this season of thanks and gratitude, I pause—
I breathe—
And I am glad that I am still here. To breathe in the crisp air and to feel my feet crunching dead leaves.