sol.ace_r

As autumn deepens, the trees slowly reveal the colors they’ve been holding inside.
The leaves that stayed quiet all summer do not change in an instant;
they shift gently, as if organizing the delicate grain of their own heart.
Lingering somewhere between red and yellow, they seem to hesitate—
until one brush of wind gives them resolve, deepening their tone.
That is why autumn foliage never feels like a momentary decoration,
but rather the result of a long-held, quiet intention.

Sometimes, when I look at the changing leaves,
I wonder if people cross their seasons in much the same way.
Even changes that seem sudden are often nothing more than
feelings and thoughts, slowly accumulated and finally finding their light.
Like that moment when we suddenly realize, “Ah, I’ve changed.”
The leaves, too, reveal a color prepared over time.

The deepest red is never created all at once.
It is the product of long days of bright sun and cold dawn mist—
time stacked layer upon layer, the scars of wind, the traces of rain,
the warmth of sunlight seeping in.
Perhaps that is why the color of autumn leaves is never simple.
Within it rests the temperature of the season,
the density of time, and the countless days each leaf has lived through.
Isn’t the human heart the same?
A single light sentence often holds countless unnamed layers of feeling.

On an autumn walk, as leaves scatter in the wind,
I feel both beauty and an inexplicable sadness.
Few seasons bring those two at once.
But maybe it isn’t only because something is about to disappear.
Perhaps the feeling carries a quiet reassurance—
“You’ve made it this far.”
Seeing the leaves shine with their final colors,
anyone might remember their own seasons endured.

And when a strong wind blows and the leaves fall all at once,
I find myself stopping a little longer.
The sound of falling leaves is faint,
yet it echoes strangely deep within.
It feels less like an ending and more like a page being turned.
A leaf that falls is not gone—it returns to the earth,
taking on another name, preparing the next season.
Falling is not an ending, but a movement toward renewal.

Knowing this, autumn foliage is no longer a symbol of withering
but of making room for what comes next—
recognizing when it is time to leave,
accepting the end of one’s role,
and quietly descending to the soil for new life to begin.
Perhaps this is the courage nature shows us.

Relationships, inner changes, and the shapes of our dreams—
all resemble this cycle.
We shine in some seasons and rest in others.
Sometimes our colors fade without our noticing,
and sometimes they grow vivid in unexpected moments.
None of these changes are shameful.
Autumn reminds us every year:
“You are enough in your own color,
and changing is a natural part of being.”

The most beautiful moment of autumn leaves
may not be their peak color,
but the instant they drift through the air on the wind—
holding their true color until the very end,
scattering it into the world without a word.
Just as we, in the many moments of our lives,
leave small traces of color in someone’s memory.

When autumn ends, the leaves vanish from sight,
but that does not mean they are gone.
Their colors linger somewhere within us,
quietly waiting for the next season—
like warmth between people, or a single kind word
that seems to disappear from the surface
yet sinks even deeper inside.

Maybe that’s why a corner of my heart always warms
when I look at the falling leaves.
It feels comforting to know they are not disappearing
but simply moving to a deeper place.
This small comfort found at the edge of a season
is perhaps why I wait for autumn every year.

And this year again, the trees color themselves
at their own pace, in their own way.
Some leaves redden early;
others hold on to their green until the last moment,
changing only when they are ready.
The difference doesn’t matter.
What matters is that no one rushes them.
Nature knows that everything shines in its own time.

I, too, carry that truth as I cross my season.
Perhaps I am still green,
or perhaps I have already turned red.
Either way, it is nothing to be ashamed of.
Just as the leaves differ in their hues,
so do people in their pace.
We each color ourselves slowly,
change little by little,
and eventually arrive at our own true shade.

As autumn deepens, the leaves will continue to fall.
But those who know that next year’s buds
are already growing beneath the fallen leaves
do not see this season only as sorrow.
Perhaps this is the quietest wisdom the foliage offers—
that even in moments that look like endings,
a new beginning is already being prepared.

And so, without a word, the maple leaves tell us once again this year:
“You, too, are crossing your season well.”