The Green Was Just a Filter

I stopped on my way to the barn this morning to take pictures of leaves. Yes, leaves. The same things I'll probably be cussing next week when they're blowing through the barn doors and piling up in every corner I just swept. But good golly, they're beautiful right now.

I've always loved fall. The crisp mornings, the corn and beans being harvested, and that old familiar smell of crop dust and field dirt hanging in the air. There's something about this time of year that just feels like home. And when the sunlight catches those trees, making everything look like somebody got a little carried away with a paintbrush, good golly, it's beautiful.

What's interesting is that we've been looking at those same trees all year. All spring and summer, they're green. Just green. We drive past them every day without giving them much thought. Then October rolls around, the temperatures drop, and suddenly those ordinary green trees are showing brilliant reds, deep oranges, golden yellows, and even shades of pink and purple.

The green was almost like a filter that made everything look relatively similar. It took a change in the weather for us to finally see what made each tree different.

I wonder how many of us spend our lives walking around wearing that same green filter.

We learn pretty young what's expected of us. How we're supposed to behave, what we're supposed to believe, and what everybody else considers an acceptable way to live. We figure out which parts of our personalities make people happy and which parts earn us a raised eyebrow. So we adjust. We learn when to keep our mouths shut, when to smile and nod, and when it's easier to agree than explain why we see things differently.

And somewhere between raising kids, building careers, paying bills, and remembering to buy toilet paper before somebody starts hollering from the bathroom, we forget there might be a whole lot more to us than what everybody sees.

We get used to being green.

I've noticed that the older we get, the more we start questioning some of those expectations. Things that seemed terribly important ten years ago don't carry nearly as much weight anymore. Our interests change, our priorities shift, and dreams we once thought were ridiculous start sounding a little more reasonable.

Sometimes we realize the version of ourselves we've been wearing for years doesn't fit particularly well anymore. Kind of like that pair of jeans hanging in the closet that you swear you're going to squeeze your ass back into someday. At some point, you have to decide whether you're going to keep being uncomfortable or just buy some damn jeans that fit.

Of course, people get used to us being a certain way. They know what we'll say, what we'll tolerate, and how we'll react. They've spent years getting comfortable with our particular shade of green, so when we start showing a little red or orange, they notice. Sometimes they don't particularly like it.

Maybe we start speaking up about things we used to let slide. Maybe we pursue a dream that doesn't make a lick of sense to anybody else, or discover a side of ourselves we've never really given the opportunity to exist.

And somebody inevitably tells us we've changed.

Well, no shit. Of course we've changed.

I'd be a little concerned if I made it through another twenty years of living and hadn't changed a damn thing about myself.

But changing takes courage, especially when we're worried about disappointing people or looking foolish. Sometimes we're so concerned about what everybody else might think that we never give ourselves the opportunity to find out what we're capable of.

And that's a hell of a lot of potential to keep covered up.

We talk about seasons changing as though they're entirely out of our control. But sometimes we're the ones who have to find the courage to let the colors change. To stop hiding behind what's familiar and give ourselves permission to be a little different than we were yesterday.

And not every season is going to be particularly colorful, either. Eventually, those beautiful leaves fall, the trees stand bare, and winter settles in. Our lives have those stretches, too. When we're exhausted, overwhelmed, or just trying to figure out what comes next.

I've never looked at a bare tree in January and wondered why it wasn't trying harder. It's January, for crying out loud. Give the poor thing a break. Yet we're awfully hard on ourselves when we're not constantly growing, improving, or accomplishing something.

Halloween is Saturday, and we'll spend the evening watching little kids run around dressed as princesses, superheroes, cowboys, and whatever else their imaginations have dreamed up. They're so excited about being somebody different for a night.

Meanwhile, I wonder how many of us adults have spent years wearing a costume we never really wanted in the first place.

I'd like to think we're all capable of a few more colors than the ones we've been showing.

And I'd hate to reach the end of my life knowing I never gave myself the opportunity to find out.

For now, I'm going to enjoy these beautiful October mornings and all the color surrounding us. In another week or two, those leaves will be brown and blowing across the barnyard, and I'll probably be wishing they'd stayed on the trees a little longer.

But at least they got their chance to show off.

I think we all deserve that chance.