A few short weeks ago, a book called Journal of Solitude by May Sarton found me. I was at an outdoor play space with my kiddos and there was a small hutch where people could leave old books to pass on to new hands. This book jumped at me as soon as I opened the little door. And it is clear why as I softly turn the pages and read the intimate words of Sarton’s reflections:
“It is a mellow day, very gentle. The ash has lost its leaves and when I went out to get the mail and stopped to look up at it, I rejoiced to think that soon everything here will be honed down to structure. It is all a rich farewell now to leaves, to color. I think of the trees and how simply they let go, let fall the riches of a season, how without grief (it seems) they can let go and go deep into their roots for renewal and sleep… Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go.”
There is more. There is always more.