And then... everything is different

Know what's weird? Day by day, nothing seems to change, but pretty soon... everything's different. Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes

Fallish morning. Crisp. Bright sunlight low on the horizon, edges diffused, streaming into gold tinged white. Apples reddening on the tree. Hints of yellow and gold in the hedge. Brilliant reds and orange in the flower beds. Stillness. Calm.

Fall is my favourite time of year. It is a time of surrender. Of letting go of summer's bright red bloom into the cool, crisp promise of quiet time to come. It is a time of colour. Of bounty. Of harvest. Of rendering all that was created in summer fields into stock pots and canning jars. It is a time to give thanks. I love fall. Not for the loss of foliage but rather, for its celebration of colour and its promise of quiet time to hunker down and curl up in the dark nights to come.

Over the past few weeks I've watched the crab apples on the tree outside my window progress from tiny green nuggets into bright green and now golden with a blush of red fruit. The transformation of the tree did not happen over night. It has been a slow and steady process. A minute by minute, step by step progression.

Like healing. From heartbreak. Loss. Failure. Illness. Well-being doesn't come in one fell swoop. It takes time. Step by step. Minute by minute progression.

So often, when the wound is fresh, we forget that pain eases. Scars heal. So often we fall into the trap of believing, 'This will never pass. This will never change. This will be forever.' So often we become attached to this moment, connected to this pain forgetting that, now is not forever. This too shall pass.

Centuries ago, Heraclitus wrote, "Nothing endures but change."

Change is here to stay. One moment, the apple tree is devoid of foliage. And then, it blossoms out in a gradual display of tiny green buds exploding into a folly of white and pink blossoms.

This morning I awoke and realized, I had gone to bed last night without taking any pain killers. I had slept without any pain in my foot. It is a first since having surgery just over five weeks ago. There were times when I wondered if my foot would ever feel better again. When I worried that the pain would never disappear and I would become a cranky old lady constantly tired out from never being able to sleep through the pain.

And then, it was gone. The pain. Sure, I can feel the scar. Feel the healing. But the pain, that constant sharp fissure of razor-blade like edginess that was stealing my sense of humour, is gone. And while it felt like it happened overnight, in reality it was a slow, steady progression of healing. Step by step. Minute by minute.

Healing requires patience. It requires giving up on control and giving into the process of letting time and quiet and new growth the opportunity to bloom. No matter the pain, there is always hope of regrowth when we let go of forcing ourselves to hold onto what is hurting us the most. What has caused us the pain. What has made us unhappy.

Change endures. In its coursing through our lives, its our choice in what we create of change, in how we weather its passing. Will it bring more, or less, of what we want in our life?

Our choice.

The question is: Are you resisting change? Are you clinging to what was in fear of what can be when you let go of your believing, 'now is forever'?