The first hints of autumn are here. Mornings are cooler, the light gentler. I continue with twice weekly visits to my wood, noticing how each tree seems to know exactly when to let go. It made me think about ageing, not as decline, but as another kind of growth. A quieter one.
Here’s a reflection from the wood.
Each year, around this time, the woodland begins to change. The green canopy I’ve walked under for months takes on deeper tones: copper, russet, ochre. The air shifts too; cooler, still carrying the scent of soil. It’s a season that asks us to slow down and look closely.
When I stand here, surrounded by trees preparing to shed, I can’t help thinking about what the woodland teaches me about ageing. Not the ageing of numbers or birthdays, but of time ripening us, shaping us, softening what once felt sharp.
Autumn isn’t an ending. It’s an act of generosity.
The trees don’t cling.
They release what’s no longer needed, returning nutrients to the soil so that life can continue. In the wood, letting go is never wasteful. The fallen leaves feed next year’s growth. The fungi rise up to break down what’s old. There’s purpose even in decay.
This year, the oaks are masting — letting down a remarkable crop of acorns. Some years they rest, conserving energy; others, they pour abundance into the forest floor. No one fully knows why, though it’s said to help the species endure — flooding the ground so that some acorns escape hungry mouths and grow into the next generation. It’s a reminder that nature’s rhythms are not always even, but deeply wise. Sometimes, giving everything is its own kind of preparation for rest.
I find comfort in that.
In later life, we can be tempted to hold tight: to roles, identities, or patterns that once defined us. Yet nature reminds us that shedding is part of thriving. There’s wisdom in allowing space for what’s next to take root, even if we don’t yet know what that is.
I’ve spent years writing and thinking about later life; the transitions from work to freedom, from structure to possibility. But standing among these trees, it strikes me again that the real work isn’t about finding another project to fill our days. It’s about tending to the ground beneath us. Making sure our inner soil stays fertile.
That means rest. Reflection. And yes, release.
The woodland shows me that vitality in later life doesn’t come from constant growth, but from regeneration. The energy that once went into pushing forward can now flow into nourishment: of self, of others, of the places we care for.
The older trees in my wood don’t strive; they hold space. Their strength lies not in striving for more light, but in creating a canopy where younger growth can flourish.
Perhaps that’s the quiet invitation of this season: to notice where we can give back without depletion. To see maturity as generosity, not withdrawal.
There’s a beauty to this time of life. One that’s different from the bright greens of spring or the full bloom of summer. Autumn beauty is more complex. It carries the marks of weathering, of storms endured and light absorbed. Its richness comes from depth, not perfection.
And when the last leaves fall, it isn’t a loss. It’s a pause; a space of waiting. Beneath the bare branches, new life is already preparing, unseen.
As I walk back through the woodland, I think of how easily our culture mistakes slowing down for decline. Yet here, nothing feels in decline. Everything is moving towards renewal.
Maybe that’s what it means to age well? To see ourselves not as fading, but as part of a longer rhythm. To trust that in our own season of letting go, something new is quietly forming beneath the surface.
The wood never hurries. It simply knows what to release, and when.
And perhaps that’s our work now, to offer what we’ve gathered, gently, into the world. Not as instruction or legacy in the formal sense, but as compost. The stories, insights, and small truths of a life fully lived returning to the shared ground, ready to nourish whoever might need them.
Some will take what we’ve left and make something new. Others may walk past, untouched. Either way, the act of release matters.
Because what endures isn’t our control, but our contribution; the quiet ways our experience enriches the soil of others’ becoming.
As you move through this season, what might you be ready to release — not as a loss, but as a gift back to the earth, and to those who follow?
