The trees begin competing with the sunrise for the most magnificent color display, their leaves changing into glorious shades before slowly letting go of the branches that have held them so steadily.
The crisp blue of the fall sky seems to match the crispness of the cool air. Everything feels a little sharper, quieter, more intentional. And, of course, there is the all important question: Is it time to start adding pumpkin spice to my coffee?
They say autumn can be a philosophical mirror for impermanence, letting go, and the cyclical nature of life. Lately, I find that idea resonates with where I am in my own life. I am learning to let go of the constant striving and achieving that has been such a familiar part of my life as I move toward part-time retirement. It is still hard to believe I am even considering retirement. How did that happen?
I was pondering this recently while shopping for eye cream—that magical potion supposedly capable of erasing the wrinkles that inconveniently prove that time has passed.
It is remarkable how many products promise a more youthful appearance. We live in a culture obsessed with youth, perfection, and the idea that we should somehow be able to reverse the passage of time. And there are plenty of companies happy to monetize our insecurities about getting older.
But what if we looked at aging differently?
This thought came to me while watching a squirrel in my backyard busily gathering nuts that had fallen from the bird feeder. He was preparing for winter, carrying mulch from the neighbor’s yard to spruce up his little home tucked into the branches of a tree.
This is one of the backyard squirrels that I keep track of, for no particularly good reason other than I can recognize him by his frayed tail. I have no idea what happened to its tail, although I suspect it may have been the result of a close encounter with the Cooper’s Hawk that occasionally visits our yard.
And yet, I love that imperfect little tail.
There is something oddly charming about this squirrel because of—and not despite—his imperfection.
All of these thoughts about autumn remind me of the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi.
Taken individually, wabi and sabi describe different ideas. Wabi speaks to rustic simplicity, humility, and living in harmony with nature. It encourages us to move away from materialism and outward appearances and toward a deeper kind of richness.
Sabi is about the beauty and depth that come with the passage of time and use. It recognizes that wear, age, and imperfection can add character rather than diminish it.
Together, wabi-sabi invites us to see beauty in things that are imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. There is even an ancient Japanese art form inspired by this philosophy called kintsugi. Broken pottery is repaired with lacquer and gold, leaving the cracks visible rather than hiding them. The “scars” become part of the story of the object—and sometimes make it even more beautiful.
I love that idea.
Our scars tell stories. They represent the places where we have been tested, changed, stretched, and sometimes broken. They carry evidence of experience, resilience, and time.
Why hide them?
Perhaps the same can be true of aging.
The lines on our faces, the gray in our hair, the changes in our bodies, and the shifting seasons of our lives are evidence that we have lived. They are not necessarily flaws to be corrected. They are part of our story.
So, this autumn, I am trying to embrace the season's reminder that change is inevitable and letting go is part of the natural rhythm of life.
I am going to enjoy slower mornings and quieter days without viewing them as lost productivity. Instead, I want to see them as more intentional rhythms.
From the trees, I will learn that letting go is not the same as giving up.
From the leaves, I will try to release some of my attachment to youth, perfection, and the endless pursuit of “more.”
From the squirrel, I will remember that there is nothing wrong with a frayed tail.
And from wabi-sabi, I will try to remember that our imperfections are not defects to be hidden. They are the patina of a life lived.
As for that eye cream I was contemplating, I suspect I may still buy it. I mean, I’m not ready to become that philosophical about aging.
But perhaps I can use it without believing I need to erase the evidence of time. Maybe those little lines around my eyes are not something to defeat, but reminders of all the years I have spent laughing, squinting into sunsets, watching birds, running, traveling, and simply being alive.
Maybe I don't need to turn back the clock.
Maybe I just need to appreciate where it has taken me.
There is beauty in that. There is freedom in that.
And maybe, as I enter this next season of my own life, I can learn to let go a little more gracefully—and enjoy the view along the way.
