From my comfy perch on the left side of the couch, looking out through the left-hand living room window, I can see between the twisted grapevines and the thick branches of two osage orange trees on the ridge into the neighbor’s now-harvested cornfield. Save for a stray dangling brown leaf here and there, the trees have been wind-stripped down to their bones. Naked Acres is about ready to live up to its name for another winter.

Patrick loves to see the topography that secures and surrounds us as we move through these weeks of autumn, where all that is unnecessary is being flattened down or blown away or cleared by a mighty Hand. We know the slopes and curves of the fields are there on the other side of July’s rich and leaf-dressed woods, but we forget how the land beneath us rolls and heaves until the fields shift to a tawny brown and the tree line goes all stark and vulnerable. I say vulnerable, but those sycamores and musclewoods and black walnuts are the standing champions in our outdoor family. They even shelter and coddle the weaker mulberry saplings when the snowfall is wet and heavy. Not everyone survives, but they do their best, this tall and silent community of beings with roots sunk deep below and arms continually stretching to the blue or cloudy skies above. They take care of each other. Lessons there, my friends. Lessons.

For a hair shy of two years now, I’ve meandered on the pages of this blog with musings and stories that I’d largely kept to myself for far longer than two years, and I’m still getting settled into the awkward passage from timid-hearted to sorta brave when it comes to self-disclosure. As my late psychologist dad used to say, “Self-revelation is not for the squeamish, no matter what side of the couch you’re on.” He was right, of course. I’ve been in both places, sitting across from someone as her moment of truth came crashing forward in a storm of tears or fury, and unpacking my own luggage in the presence of a trusted member of my personal ‘board of directors’, but in those latter episodes, I’ve often walked away doubtful that it was ever the right move. I’ve squeamed often (there’s a new word for you; the autocorrect isn’t having it). But in an unexpectedly reassuring way, the look back at those moments doesn’t include any lasting impressions of deadly fallout. I’m still here, I have healthy, nurturing relationships and a solid set of elastic core values. I eat mostly well and can still put my aging body in service to a variety of heavy-lifting tasks. Whatever I feared would happen hasn’t come to pass.

I understand that I have more choices than the trees do when it comes to shedding layers of pretense and protection. They receive the harsh gifts of the seasons with grace and growth, and while they may lose a few bits of themselves along the way, they’re also experts at repurposing and healing: bark that has embraced and tucked into itself a length of rusty barbed wire (to try and remove that now would do more damage than the original wound), the cut end of a 5” branch once raw and seeping now weathered and smooth. I could learn from that (and I have, truly), but when they deliberately let go of the very dressing that makes them gorgeous and beloved (whether it’s green, fire-y red or glowing orange) and reveal their hard-earned knobs and knots and knuckles, I wince and impulsively want to cover them up in the most compassionate way. I hardly ever choose to show anyone those less attractive parts of my character. It’s nearly always an accidental event, and in front of people I want to impress or whose opinion of me matters.

But on another side of the Liz coin, I am usually the one to put my hand out first, ask the first ice-breaking question, and continue the conversation with sincere follow-up questions. I enjoy speaking to groups large and intimate about topics they’ve requested or I’ve initiated, and punctuate key messages with stories from my own life that connect the dots. I walk the halls at work with my head up, make eye contact, and say “hello, how’s your day?” and stick around to hear the answer. And while I may not volunteer a lot about myself, I respond honestly when asked. In the words of my beloved friend Matt (who spoke them to me just this past Friday as we chatted on my way across the county), I’m a “fiercely private extrovert with a deep need to be known and understood”, to which I added “in my own time”. Measured and edited self-revelation. Through writing. Go figure.

So far, people have been gracious and kind with what I’ve put “out there”, not frightened my introvert back into her cave with harsh critique, and the move from timid to brave continues rather smoothly. Only I know the risks I haven’t taken yet, the stories still dangling from a topmost branch until a seasonal wind pulls them gently to the ground.

There’s no rush. I trust that wind and the unfolding season through which it travels. I’m grateful for the gift of your company along the road.