I am no different from the trees: my leaves are dying. And that lush self of summer months, only weeks ago burgeoning with life, is receding deeper into me. And all that is excess is falling away. This can hurt. It can be confusing. Especially if you don’t see it coming or don’t accept it when it does. But it soon passes; and when it is over, when I will be left with nothing but what is requisite, what is indispensable, I am all the better for it. For then, with what little is left after the frost, I know all that I am and all that I need to be. I am stronger here in my core. Winter is coming. Let it be so.