As I write this, by the calendar it has been winter for well over a week, but we are only beginning to see the first visual touches of “fall” here in Arizona. The leaves on the few seasonal trees that proudly loom down Hartford, our neighborhood’s main through street, have begun to honey and scatter their amber leaves. We have let our lawn fall dormant, sheared by our gardener in preparation for winter grass that we never seeded. Our neighbor’s tree has begun its annual depositing of leaves into our side yard, but it’s something I never mind. I actually look forward to it. It reminds me of Illinois, where the changing of the seasons was tangible, and so different from the liminal spaces that present themselves in Arizona’s seasonal shapeshifting, the time in between summer after oppressively hot summer.

This year especially, I am appreciating that all across my city, it feels like nature has had a bit of a collective hold out. It is almost a new year, but the chill of winter has not yet filled the air. The trees are only beginning to loosen their grips over their colors, shushing the leaves, whispering hush now, it is almost time to let go. There is still that autumnal gathering happening deep in nature’s bones, even with twinkling lights lining the streets and giant, globe ornaments placed beside street posts and around city hall.

In many ways, 2023 felt like the year of gathering. I did not feel that I made much “progress” in the way our society traditionally defines it. In fact, it felt like we only survived, and did so in spite of the chaos occurring around us in the world at large and in our own lives. I survived chronic illness, several organizational interruptions and times of uncertainty at my corporate job, and the pancreatic cancer diagnosis of a close relative that had the entire family reeling. But in all of these events and others, as I braced against the brash, I gathered insight. Insight into what I can tolerate and what I can’t. Insight into what I thought was meaningful to me, but isn’t. Insight into what I need to pour energy into to keep myself afloat.  

And while after this intense year of gathering, I don’t have it in me to make many commitments or resolutions to myself for 2024, one thing I do hope for is curiosity. Curiosity about opportunities that will help me define (and redefine) myself and question my narratives. Curiosity about what and who I can be for myself and those around me if I release this tight, tight grip I’ve been holding for as long as I can remember. 

Because I think I’m nearly ready to let go.