“I am learning to let go like autumn. I am learning to grow like spring.”

And maybe my arms have grown too tired to hold this but my eyes will never stop searching for miracles.

They tell you to be grateful for what you have. But you are also allowed to be sad for what you have lost.

I remind myself that I am capable of growing flowers from rain and building mountains from dirt.

I have cried with the rain. Now I will grow with the forest.

I am made of flowers, the kind that always grow back even after the frost.

You cannot hope to heal when you are stuck some where between needing to get over them and still wishing for them to come back.

It hurts to let go but it heals to be free.

They expect me to feel like spring but my heart is full of April showers.

My heart roams in the wild. A place where there is always room to grow.

I think I will always be half a breath between the hurting and the healing.

I have become a ghost, Letting myself be haunted by everything I once was and everything I could’ve been.

Let autumn be proof that change is a beautiful thing even tho it can be hard to see at first.

No matter how many storms pass through it, this heart is still a gentle thing.

I am always forgiving too easily as if I have forgotten the way it hurts.

I thought the answer was to bury the pain deep within, but nothing grows from grief.

The darkness is only here to remind you how beautiful everything is when light comes back.

It was one of those sumptuous days when the world is full of autumn muskiness and tangy, crisp perfection: vivid blue sky, deep green fields, leaves in a thousand luminous hues. It is a truly astounding sight when every tree in a landscape becomes individual.

Life is a metaphysical autumn, with time it changes the color of life and fall, but always has an aura of change and depth.

His beautiful, light imagination is the wing that on the autumn evening just brushes the dusky window.

Two monks sit facing, playing chess on the mountain, The bamboo shadow on the board is dark and clear. Not a person sees the bamboo’s shadow, One sometimes hears the pieces being moved.

Love the trees until their leaves fall off, then encourage them to try again next year.

A strip of water’s spread in the setting sun, Half the river’s emerald, half is red. I love the third night of the ninth month, The dew is like a pearl; the moon like a bow.

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it.

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.