Thanksgiving Is a Shift in the Heart

Have you ever had a stretch in your life when a pause gets dropped in front of you? It doesn’t have to be loud. It just needs enough presence to get your attention.

We have this Japanese Red Maple that stands on the edge of the property just outside my studio window. It is decorated with the most vibrant crimson leaves you could imagine. When the sun touches them at the right angle, their color deepens even more, especially against the amber browns and soft greens of the other trees that lost their leaves weeks ago.

I have always wondered why these leaves hold onto their color and stay up so late into the fall.

But this morning, in the early light, I noticed something. They were finally letting go. One by one. Almost in perfect sequence.

The temperature last night dipped down to twenty seven degrees. I was curious, so I looked to see if there was a connection between the cold snap and the tree’s decision to release its leaves. And yes, the explanations were all there, scientific and precise.

But I never want to be the science guy.

What mattered more was what I saw.

It wasn’t very windy, yet the leaves drifted slowly down. Each one completed its descent before another began. There was no rush. No drama. Just a quiet, natural dance.

Because the wind stayed soft, each leaf stayed right where it fell. Most on the ground, some nestled into the cradles where branches divide, and others caught gently on the tops of the ornamental grasses a few feet away.

As the temperature climbed to nearly fifty degrees later in the morning, the releasing stopped. What remains now is the lower quadrant of the tree that faces the late day southern sun. Those leaves are still holding on for another day, waiting for their own moment.

It was not dramatic.

But it was graceful.

And the red carpet that formed beneath it stayed all day, glowing.

A few of those fallen leaves tucked themselves into the soft moss at the base of the trunk. They were not lost. They were not discarded. They were held close to the center of the tree.

Moments like this are when nature becomes the teacher.

What I witnessed this morning was tenderness. A gentle embrace. A natural resilience. And an ability to work with whatever the moment offered, holding on or letting go as needed.

It reminded me of what we carry, and what we release.

Some of the leaves became interwoven with the late season grasses. Red and gold resting together in a way that told another story. Early winter meeting late autumn. Not an ending, but a merging.

Two seasons working together for a moment. Softness holding up vibrancy.

This was not a metaphor attached to a memory. This was a metaphor taking shape in real time, right in front of me.

It connected me to my own inner season. A reminder that we all move through quiet shifts and turning points.

Thanksgiving is only days away now. What I learned from this moment was simple.

Thanksgiving is not an event.

It is a shift in the heart.

It arrives when we recognize the season we are actually in.

The maple was letting go gently.

And I am in a season of letting go too.

But there are parts of me that are still holding on. The parts that return me to warmth and steadiness. The parts that wait for just a little more light. There is a kind of wisdom in slow change.

The unseen work always leads to renewal. It is a whisper we should learn to listen for.

These last couple of months have changed me. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But in that quiet, internal way that winter changes a tree.

There is unseen work happening beneath the bark. New buds forming for what comes next. Trees have to trust the temperatures. And we have to trust the heart with its own timing.

We can let go without collapsing.

We can hold on without fear.

We can use rest as preparation, and gratitude as a way to move through the season.

Thanksgiving is not a day on the calendar. It is the heart shifting from survival back into becoming again.

So today, I am returning slowly with a deeper sense of awareness. I am trusting what has fallen away. I am trusting what is still holding on. And I am trusting the quiet work happening beneath the surface.

I hope you feel the shift this season too.

Talk soon…

G