In the woods where I walk every day, most of the leaves have now fallen from the trees. But some, like those in this picture, remain attached. It seems that the natural movement of autumn into winter has, for them, been interrupted. Actually, there’s another natural process at work here. It’s called marcescence, and I thank my Dark Angels friend Michelle for gifting me that word.

Normally, as summer becomes autumn and the wavelength of light changes, your typical leaf responds in two ways. First, it stops producing the chlorophyll that makes it look green. Instead, it makes photosynthetic pigments, which gradually turn it brown. Second, the leaf starts to make abscission cells, which gradually separate the leaf – which is now dying – from the healthy tree. Whether the tree lets go of the leaf or the leaf lets go of the tree is an interesting thing to ponder.

But what I’m interested in just now is the fact that a few leaves – like the ones in my photo – do not participate in this process. They die when all the other leaves die, but they remain connected to the tree. They become marcescent.

Why this happens is something of a mystery. But there are theories. One is that it confers an evolutionary benefit on the tree: marcescent leaves protect its vulnerable buds from the winter cold; they provide shelter for birds that disperse its seeds. I thank my biologist daughter Evie for explaining all this to me.

I like the idea that these dead old leaves are lingering for a purpose. All things arise and pass, that is the natural and healthy flow of life. It’s something to accept and welcome. We need to let go of what wants or needs to go, so we can welcome in what wants or needs to come in. But it’s a process that needs to unfold in its own time. 

As we career towards January – the time of new year resolutions, fitness ‘challenges’, alcohol-free pledges, and a general sense that we all need to somehow improve or optimise ourselves – there’s a lot of urgency around forcing change to happen. (And it’s dark out there! We want the winter to hurry up and end.)

Creative writerly folk are highly susceptible to this sort of thing. We promise ourselves that we will finish the novel this year, write a poem a day, chain ourselves to our desks until the big project is done. If our plans don’t work out, it’s because we didn’t discipline ourselves enough. And so the answer must be more discipline, more forcing.

Devotion to a writing practice is healthy, beating yourself up because you couldn’t impose your will on the world is not. Maybe now just isn’t the time for what you’ve been trying to do? Perhaps something else wants to be welcomed into your life and your creative practice, but you need to let go of something first, so that there’s room for it to emerge?

Then again, perhaps there’s a lingering something you feel pressured to let go of – talking to people on the phone, writing letters, the dream of making poems – that is not as dead as it appears? It’s worth holding onto for a while longer?

Even a marcescent leaf will fall eventually. But when that happens will be decided by the wind, not the tree or the leaf.

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Only do what only you can do

Here’s a timely quote from the poet Kim Stafford:

“The world won’t say, take time to yourself. Some friends might, but the world will say, achieve, work hard, put your head down, keep your nose to the grindstone. The essential thing is to step aside from that and listen to what is within you and bring it forth onto the page and trust that’s the most essential thing. I realized that that’s all I can do. I can’t do all those other things. I made a vow with a friend, and we said to one another: only do what only you can do, and only do what gives you joy, for joy is fundamentally practical in sustaining a life and helping others.”

And here’s a question for reflection: how might you bring more joy to your writing practice next year?