Little Leaves

There are days when writing is difficult. My mind is full, and thoughts are running quickly—like a hamster on a wheel—going nowhere fast. Today was one of those days. Thoughts past and present crept in and thwarted my ability to write, popping up at every turn. It was a definite squirrel day.

I began to write, then checked my phone, put that down, started writing again, got up to

walk around, sat back down, and stared at the ceiling. I wrote an entire children’s story—and hated it. Went back to start again and got stuck two paragraphs in. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block. More like “life block.” Brain block? Stuck!!

When I was a kid, I was incapable of reining that in. I just let it go, because as children, that’s what we do. As I grew up, I learned how to train myself not to get so distracted. Yet here we are, and it still happens sometimes. It’s frustrating that I still have things that steal my thoughts and hijack my ability to relax.

But something happened tonight that reminded me of the little things in life—the ones that are actually the most beautiful things in life. Ever since my kids were little, my mother would send them cards in the fall when the leaves changed colors. She would press some of those bright red, orange, and yellow leaves and send them to the kids in little cards. They loved it.

In Florida, we really don’t get many leaves that fall from the trees, so seeing leaves in vibrant colors other than green is amazing. They loved getting those cards.

My first daughter got married last month, and tonight my mom texted me to ask for her address because she had a card for her—with her leaves.

You might be thinking, This is strange—someone sending cards with dried-up old leaves in them. But it isn’t just leaves; it’s memories of the past. My mother’s mother came from England. In those days, you didn’t go back to your home country. Leaving and coming to America was a lifelong commitment that meant home was now here instead of there.

My great-grandmother missed England, so one of her relatives would send leaves and small things in letters to her. She kept those things in a box on her closet shelf. Every now and then, she would take the box down and show the little treasures to my mother—meticulously picking through and showing her the crispy leaves. Things from a far-off land.

This is a core memory for my mother and one she has continued to pass on. She has always loved the little things. She picked up sticks, seeds, interesting rocks, and, of course, leaves whenever we were outside. The beauty of the “little thing” was, and still is, a true delight to her.

Today, I was overcome with and distracted by the BIG things—the ones that cause anxiety and stress and frustration. The kind that steal your joy and make you count the minutes in a day. And then, I was reminded about the leaves, and the rain, the sunrise and the sunset, the smell of the summer breeze and the grass as it pushes between your toes, the scent of the ocean, and the first star to appear in the night sky.

And then my mind cleared.