I read it in first grade and it accelerated the development of a profound sense of consciousness and independent thinking and fortified my existing love for animals/nature/the environment. I was already an overly existential child and it helped me learn to focus on beauty and joy in the face of death and suffering!
—
The leaves were falling from the great oak at the meadow's edge. They were falling from all the trees.
One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to its very tip.
"It isn't the way it used to be," said one leaf to the other.
"No," the other leaf answered. "So many of us have fallen off tonight we're almost the only ones left on our branch."
"You never know who's going to go next," said the first leaf. "Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes, and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young. You never know who's going to go next."
"The sun seldom shines now," sighed the second leaf, "and when it does it gives no warmth. We must have warmth again."
"Can it be true," said the first leaf, "can it really be true, that others come to take our places when we're gone and after them still others, and more and more?"
"It is really true," whispered the second leaf. "We can't even begin to imagine it, it's beyond our powers."
"It makes me very sad," added the first leaf.
They were silent a while. Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, "Why must we fall? ..."
The second leaf asked, "What happens to us when we have fallen?"
"We sink down. ..."
"What is under us?"
The first leaf answered, "I don't know, some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows."
The second leaf asked, "Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we're down there?"
The first leaf answered, "Who knows? Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it."
They were silent again. Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, "Don't worry so much about it, you're trembling."
"That's nothing," the second leaf answered, "I tremble at the least thing now. I don't feel so sure of my hold as I used to."
"Let's not talk any more about such things," said the first leaf.
The other replied, "No, we'll let be. But—what else shall we talk about?" She was silent, but went on after a little while. "Which of us will go first?"
"There's still plenty of time to worry about that," the other leaf assured her. "Let's remember how beautiful it was, how wonderful, when the sun came out and shone so warmly that we thought we'd burst with life. Do you remember? And the morning dew, and the mild and splendid things..."
"Now the nights are dreadful," the second leaf complained, "and there is no end to them."
"We shouldn't complain," said the first leaf gently. "We've outlived many, many others."
"Have I changed much?" asked the second leaf shyly but determinedly.
"Not in the least," the first leaf assured her. "You only think so because I've got to be so yellow and ugly. But it's different in your case."
"You're fooling me," the second leaf said.
"No, really," the first leaf exclaimed eagerly, "believe me, you're as lovely as the day you were born. Here and there may be a little yellow spot but it's hardly noticeable and only makes you handsomer, believe me."
"Thanks," whispered the second leaf, quite touched. "I don't believe you, not altogether, but I thank you because you're so kind, you've always been so kind to me. I'm just beginning to understand how kind you are."
"Hush," said the other leaf, and kept silent herself for she was too troubled to talk any more.
Then they were both silent. Hours passed.
A moist wind blew, cold and hostile, through the treetops.
"Ah, now," said the second leaf, "I..." Then her voice broke off. She was torn from her place and spun down.
Winter had come.
Sep 8, 2024
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In the end, autumn is no more than a cold infusion.
Dead leaves of all essences steep in the rain. No fermentation, no resulting alcohol: the effect of compresses applied to a wooden leg will not be felt till spring.
The stripping is messily done. All the doors of the reading room fly open and shut, slamming violently.
Into the basket, into the basket! Nature tears up her manuscripts, demolishes her library, furiously thrashes her last fruits.
She suddenly gets up from her work table; her height at once immense. Unkempt, she keeps her head in the mist. Arms dangling, she rapturously inhales the icy wind that airs her thoughts. The days are short, night falls fast, there is no time for comedy.
The earth, amid the other planets in space, regains its seriousness. Its lighted side is narrower, infiltrated by valleys of shadow. Its shoes, like a tramp's, slosh and squeak.
In this frog pond, this salubrious amphibiguity, everything regains strength, hops from rock to rock, and moves on to another meadow. Rivulets multiply.
That is what is called a thorough cleaning, and with no respect for conventions! Garbed in nakedness, drenched to the marrow.
And it lasts, does not dry immediately. Three months of healthy reflection in this condition; no vascular reac-tion, no bathrobe, no scrubbing brush. But its hearty constitution can take it.
And so, when the little buds begin to sprout again, they know what they are up to and what is going on—and if they peek out cautiously, all numb and flushed, they know why:
But here begins another tale, thereby hanging perhaps but not smelling like the black rule that will serve to draw my line under this one.
Oct 4, 2024
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This morning I read the second section of Ray Young Bear’s Winter Of The Salamander, “When We Assume Life Will Go Well For Us”. Ray’s work is dreamlike yet feels viscerally real. It helps me integrate the mental with the physical in my life. Anyways, I wanted to share a poem I read about ten times over this morning that evoked an indescribable feeling in me.
From His Dream
the air hadn’t changed
since she last saw her mother.
the land was cover with frozen
rain. she knew a couple of days
ahead that the spring would disappear.
she kept reminding to her husband,
it’ll have to come back.
i don’t think it’s really over with,
but he always seemed disinterested.
a look of worry in his eyes.
even as it was snowing,
thunder rolled across the roof
of their home and they couldn’t
help glancing at each other
with puzzled faces. bodies
of disemboweled animals flashed
in their minds,
the children ran about in play
but when they ran into their father’s
eyes, they could see the light
of their rooms, the changing contrast
of shadows, clothes that had to be buried, faces of death, a knife burning in
the figure of seals on a tree.
the second time they ran,
the wind made sounds as if
there were people with their mouths
up against the house, talking.
as it grew colder, the snow made
more noise against the plastics
coverings over the windows.
when the children looked outside
they could see the clouds piling up
on top of each other, each group
darker than the other.
across the room where their mother
sat they could distinctly visualize
the changing color of her lips.
teeth biting into her skin.
they followed as she circled
the room, spitting the chewed willow
all around the windows.
their son has been gone most
of the day. it wasn’t unusual for him
to hunt alone. he always seemed to know
what to do. old enough to be gifted
naturally to keep away from flowing women,
he had spoken about sliding down hills
on his knees, picking up the snow
to his ears and hearing the thoughts
of deer, bringing packed bodies
of muskrat and duck, the different
crusts of blood on his shoulder bag.
from a distance, his father
could see his tracks heading
into the thickets. small owls guided
their way through brush by the touch
in their wings. he remembered a dream
he had that morning of giant fish
and coral snakes submerged in the icy waters
of a river he had never seen.
he and his son cornering a small horse
covered with fish scales, bearing
the head of a frightened man.
its thin legs and cracked hooves.
somewhere in this land he knew
there was a place where these creatures
existed. he had also been told of a hole
where the spirits spent their days,
watching the people before they crawled
out, traveling through their arcs
in the sky towards evening like birds.
on the way back home, thinking his son
had circled the forest, he crawled
across a section of river which was still
covered with ice and fish entrails,
previous spots where he had taught
his son to use a blanket to block
out the daylight to lie there
with his barbed spear, waiting
for catfish to lumber out from the roots
of fallen trees under the ice.
although he felt a desire to crawl
straight across without looking
down into the river bottom through
the clear ice, something caught his eye,
as he peered into the bubbling water,
he saw the severed head of his son,
the hoof from his dream,
bouncing along the sandy bottom.
Jan 19, 2025
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just something i wrote for an assignment in 9th grade English. also if you recognize the mitski quote hidden in the poem don't tell my school I plagiarized pretty please
i.
I am to be born anew in ten days.
I can feel it
In my skin.
It pulses under the flesh
Like a river, rushing through my veins.
A change is fast approaching and I am not strong enough to withstand it.
ii.
I am too vulnerable, too fragile to change.
I am one to be crushed under a boot, I cannot endure this change that will come in 9 days' time.
I am afraid.
Afraid.
iii.
My mother changed only weeks ago. She is as young as I soon will be.
Her children, my siblings, are many. I am one in one thousand and I will be lost in a haze of orange when we change. It will be brilliant, it will be,
Fleeting.
Our beauty will last only seconds in the eyes of those who look upon us.
Mother, I am to be young again.
Mother, were you scared? Were you scared mother?
I am scared of the change to come.
iv.
My hunger grows with each passing day, as does my fear.
Some of my siblings have already started to settle. They seek out the places closer to the sky, as if, even in this life before the next, they long to be weightless, held only by the cold wind that I feel on my back.
They do not seem afraid, as I am. They turn their heads to the sky, facing down the wide expanse of blue like the ant faces a hurricane. They do not cower, only waiting for the change they know is coming. They are resilient in ways I am not.
I am not, I am not, I am not.
Please, I am not them, please, I cannot withstand this.
I am afraid, do you hear?
I, who make no sound, am screaming
I am afraid of the change to come.
v.
Today, I reflect.
My life, as short as it is, is coming to an end. In five days, I will become someone else.
In five days, I am to live a new life in a new body.
Mother, you are dying soon. Soon, my new body will replace yours in the kaleidoscope.
Soon, mother, soon. I do not want to leave the ground, I do not want to take flight like I am intended to. Mother, soon, too soon.
vi.
I have begun the change.
Soon, mother. Soon.
ix.
This barrier between me and my new world has begun to crack. I push at the walls of my chrysalis with new arms, new legs.
This new body has not seen the outside world but it is unafraid. How? How did something so sensitive become a rock in a river? I had thought, before my new mind settled in my head, that my fear would remain.
Even if my body had changed, my mind would remain.
But it has not, and I am just like my siblings. Their resilience which I had only witnessed when I had looked into their dark eyes, and seen the look on their faces, has become mine.
Oh mother, is this how you felt? Was I wrong to ask if you were afraid? You were, weren’t you? Just like me, my mother, like me. And like me you weathered your storm, you were born anew and unafraid.
i.
I am different.
I feel it, in a way unlike any other. My body has changed but my mind as well. Before, I was guided by the will to survive. Before, I was not looking to the skies because there was nothing in them for me to look at, but now, now my weary head turns to the sky as almost second nature. It calls to me, to my newborn wings and my young resolve to conquer it.
I am finally living.
Mother, is this what you felt like? Did you live as well?
This change, this change,
I am alive, for the first time, I live.
Oh, mother, I am not afraid. I will face the skies,
Unafraid.
And the wind will push my frail body
but I will not fall, no,
These new wings,
they will take flight and I will rise,
Do you hear? Mother?
I will rise, just like you.
I am born anew.
May 13, 2024
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“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.”
— Anaïs Nin
This is uncharacteristically raw and personal, even for me, and pretty heavy! I know many of you have seen me posting through it and I feel safe to talk about it openly now that I’ve safely landed at the start of my new life. It’s honestly even a little bit embarrassing but I think it’s important to share.
I’ve never publicly mentioned it on here, but I have a husband; as of Friday, we’d have been together for 11 years, and we’ve been married for 3 years as of 2/22. I realize now that I wanted to explore what I looked like outside of my relationship with him because I had lost that. This is why PI.FYI has been so meaningful to me as a space to express myself and connect with people—to rediscover my voice.
I had been living a lie this entire time, to others but worst of all to myself. He’s been verbally and emotionally abusive, physically but without touching me, to the point that every day I spent with him I was in danger. I’ve been shrinking myself and walking on eggshells to avoid making him insecure and provoking his casual put-downs and fits of rage, while hanging on for dear life to the threads of good I could see.
I’ve wanted so badly to leave, more than anything, but I felt like there was no way out and that this was just something I would need to endure indefinitely—but someone who is so very dear to me helped me see that I have wings to fly, not by acting as my savior but by reminding me of my own power. The emotional safety they built and the gentle care they showed me made me feel like I could open up to them. With their encouragement I was brave enough to tell the truth to my friends, my family, my boss, and they have received me with warm, loving and open arms and rallied to support and protect me. The financial and logistical aspects were the most intimidating to me and it’s going to be tough for a while but I’m going to be better than okay!
Now I’m opening up to you. This isn’t the only abuse I’ve suffered in my life, and my old therapist told me she believed it was my mission to share my strength and light with others to inspire them and show them that change is possible.
I hope that by sharing this, I can reach even just one person who is going through something similar and show that they are not alone, and they are not weak. People with certain backgrounds may be more vulnerable to abuse, but it can happen to anyone. It thrives in darkness, shame, and isolation—and breaking that silence is the first step toward freedom.
Leaving is the scariest thing I have ever done but I have so many angels around me, and I am endlessly grateful. Thank you for being here with me 💌
Mar 16, 2025
My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebody—be it a relative or one of my best friends—was to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too 💌
Feb 23, 2025
Schedule sent my resignation email for the morning, effective immediately ✅💅
Feb 27, 2025