Gold

A reminder of the gold of this season, and the gold in you... maybe even in me.

This is my favourite time of the year here in Aotearoa, New Zealand: autumn (fall). I love the colours of the leaves on the trees turning different shades of orange, red, brown, yellow, and the bright mosaics they make as they fall. Particularly with the extended spell of settled blue sky days we’ve been getting, it’s pretty spectacular.

The town I live in is known as the “town of trees”. We have an array of trees from all over the world, their leaves all adding to the palette of colours: the golden-yellows of the massive London planes, the deep reds of the North American liquidambers, the orangey-browns of the Japanese cherries and the bright yellows of Chinese ginkgo bilobas.

Oaks remind me of my childhood backyard in Marton. We had massive oak trees at the back of our yard near the railway line. I remember gathering old wool sacks full of dead leaves and acorns to dispose. I loved jumping into the bag and burrowing into the musty, crunchy leaves. I probably wasn’t much help in actually tidying our leafy mess.

I’m a nostalgic soul, and perhaps autumn is a kind of nostalgia; the shortening days and lowering temperatures a long farewell to another summer past.

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The Mundane School Run

Right on two years ago I was doing the school drop-off run. I’d dropped my older daughter at high school and was heading to the middle school for my younger daughter. There was once a railway line running through the middle of one of our main streets; the tracks are long gone but the trees remain, their falling leaves painting a resplendent picture.

A storm had blown a massive amount of leaves off overnight, forming an eye-catching multi-coloured carpet on this beautiful morning that followed. I pointed it out to my younger girl, but she had other things on her mind that day. So had I. As I dropped her at school, a magnetic instinct deep within me drew me back to just pause and take in the scene.

I had been a builder for years, but at this point I had been unable to work for six months. I had sprained my right wrist the previous November, and the injury had not healed, instead morphing into a neurological nightmare known as complex regional pain syndrome, or CRPS. I had just been given this diagnosis, and was waiting on a second opinion. I was confused about what was going on; I was wrestling with daily pain, disrupted sleep, and confusion about where this left me and my business. Not just that, but so much of my identity had taken shape around what I could achieve with my hands.

This deep voice was inviting me to pause and push all that aside; to just go back and take in the scene, take in the colours, smells, and crisp morning air.

I obeyed the voice and drove back to a spot under a ginkgo tree with its bright yellow carpet encompassing it. This same deep voice that had drawn me back nudged me a little further, whispering, “you could do something fun with that.” Next to the ginkgo was a liquidambar with deep red leaves; the contrast was eye-catching. “Do something with the contrasting golden hues, do something creative.”

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The creative child meets tall‑poppy culture

In my last article, I talked about this whimsical, creative child-version of me back at primary school, writing quirky stories and dreaming vivid narratives in my bedroom. It was like the same voice was now again calling me to do it again; do something quirky.

But there was another voice, another impulse trying to shut that down, saying, “Nah man, don’t be a try‑hard, just stay cool.”“Try‑hard” is a put‑down here in our tall-poppy culture; it’s someone who puts themselves out there, stands out, does something different, goes outside the norms… “Don’t do that, bro, just stay cool, just be normal.”

To be clear, these weren’t real, audible voices in my head. They were subtle impulses, imaginings, more like memories reappearing than voices. We all have them in some form. But these different impulses – for me to create, or to keep my head down and fit in – created a mental loop that carried on for about 15 minutes; an invisible internal struggle between my young creative self and this older self that had learnt to fit in by acting normal. Like, “What would other people think of me if they saw me doing something weird with leaves?”

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Soundtracks of our lives

You’d be right in thinking there’s a lot going on in my head, but there’s more: there’s more often than not a soundtrack too! Music that has stuck with me as meaningful or resonant at some stage or place in my life. As I was debating the leaves, Spandau Ballet was singing:

You are… Gold
Always believe in your soul
You have the power to know
You’re indestructible, always believing
You are Gold

That song was released in 1983. I was 6 and had a little AM transistor radio I probably first heard it on, or maybe on RTR Countdown on the telly. But why were these lyrics from 40 years prior so indelibly etched into my psyche? What was meaningful about them? Why had they surfaced up now? The leaves were gold, but did I believe I was gold? Do I really believe in my soul; then, or now?

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Crossing the threshold into action

I had to laugh at myself when realized what I was doing, arguing with myself was sillier than playing with leaves. So I grabbed a massive armful of deep red liquidambar leaves and started placing them in a pattern amongst the yellow gingko leaves. I took time to make sure the letters were even, clear and readable, but to be honest, it took less calories to do it than it did fretting.

People were driving past on their way to work or dropping their kids off at school; high‑school students were walking and scootering past; people were walking their dogs, or their kids to kindy. None of them paid any attention to this weirdo playing in the leaves. No one cared. That “don’t be a try‑hard” voice was just an internalised echo from my own school years.

Two people did stop and notice; a couple who looked like they’d slept rough that night, still carrying half a bottle of wine at 8.30am. They crossed over to see what I was doing. The guy said “Faaaar, that’s awesome bro… yeah… awesome.” His companion was more curt: “Yeah cool mate. Hey, can you give us a lift to Rotorua?” I really couldn’t (over an hour away), so she just walked away, but the guy just kept looking, almost mesmerised: “Yeah… that’s awesome aye…” And then too carried on too.

Perhaps me and him were the only ones not in a hurry to be somewhere that morning.

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The ripple effect of sharing

I took some photos of my little creation, but then second-guessed whether to share them or not. Again, “don’t be a try-hard” rang in my head, but I ignored it and posted my photos on our local community grapevine page, before returning to the life worries and stresses I’d been keeping at bay.

That evening, I found nearly 500 people had liked my post, and over 40 comments: “Lovely encouraging words”, “This spoke to me”, “Absolutely beautiful”, “I believe it's a Ginkgo.” Not one criticism. Not one post saying “What a try-hard.”

I was especially moved by a direct message I received from a woman around my age, barely holding life together. So much was working against her, she was nearly done, but what I’d whimsically created in the leaves spoke deep in her soul, the reminder she needed that “You are valued, you are not alone, you are gold.” Honestly, if that was the only message I’d received, it would have been worth it.

But really, that was a by-product of me resolving my own internal struggle; of hearing and noticing my own impulses and instincts, and recognising them for what they were. Those voices were all valid in some way; noticing that, and laughing at it, released the loop that was keeping me stuck.

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Believing all of us belongs

That little zany child wanting to do something quirky, that’s always been there, although for large parts of my life that side of me has been constrained. That older voice saying “Don’t be a try-hard”, that was looking out for me, because I had been mocked for being weird, quirky, different, un-cool. I had to find other ways to fit in, be accepted and affirmed. These were adaptations, but that part of me guarded me from emotional hurt and drove me to achieve and succeed. Becoming a respected builder was a sense of affirmation, and while there’s utilitarian value in construction, creativity is very much a part of it, especially bespoke builds and solutions required for heritage restorations. Renovating literally means re-making new, it is inherently creative.

But this was just leaves, right? Here today, blown away tomorrow, to decompose and feed the soil for another season; another lap around the sun. It was no big deal, no creative masterpiece. Creativity isn’t just high art or ballads or showpieces though.

Being creative is perhaps just mindfully adding something new to our space, something that points toward a better story, or expresses a different insight. It could be as simple as a caring check-in text to someone who just sprung to mind; it could be a friendly chat to the person at the supermarket check-out, deliberately using their name (that’s why they wear name-tags, right?) “Hi Daisy, how’s your day going?” isn’t hard to say, but it could create a positive memory of the day for Daisy. It might be Daisy’s only bright moment in an awful day.

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Our hidden, golden selves

I could easily have given in to my internal critic and not done anything, but it wouldn’t have brightened the days of the people who saw it. Driving away would have meant that one woman who DM’d me wouldn’t have received that affirmation she desperately needed. Me giving into a whim meant her own deep, vulnerable self could find some beauty in her space, a simple affirmation that kept her going. The beauty from the trees and the leaves did that, as did the 40-yr-old lyrics from a British new-wave band. Putting the two together wasn’t hard, it was child’s play in fact.

I can see this gold in others, this value and unique beauty each person carries inside them. But I find it so much harder to see it in myself; I struggle to believe that this timid but insistent voice deep inside me could be trying to bring something of unique value that adds beauty to my little world.

I’ll finish with the words from my grapevine post two years ago…

A shout out to anyone doing it tough at the moment, feeling like storms are hitting and everything is falling down. It’s tough. Take a minute, make a little space for the sadness and pain. They’re real. They’re signposts, telling you it matters.

Sometimes there’s seasons when it all falls around us, but seasons do pass, eventually. Hold onto hope. Let your roots grow a little deeper, soaking in nutrients of kindness and grace, even in the little things, and newness does grow, slowly, imperceptibly, buds of hope and promise of better tomorrows.

It’s okay to mourn the loss of summer warmth. It’s okay to feel like spring is still far away. But there’s beauty in the in-between. There’s a reason for everything. Be kind to yourself. Look for the beauty in your in-between, small things, a smile, a kind word, a thank you, a hug. Just like there’s beauty in falling leaves, there’s beauty in you. You are gold.