The view from the kitchen window is a canopy of fragile autumn light. The redbud closest to the house is a deep vibrant yellow. The leaves of the ash are yellow underneath but garnet on top. The red maple that towers over both is in transition from deepest green to fiery red. I looked out yesterday as the wind ripped away a hundred ash leaves and tossed them to the sky. I wanted to cry out at the wastefulness, to slow down the destruction, so that I might savor it at my leisure. It's as if some marvelous painter, after a frenzy of beautiful bravura brush strokes, threw down his brush and tore the canvas to shreds and let the wind carry it all away. Nature says, I've done my work for the season, I've adorned my trees in their finest, for my own glory, and now I am tired and will take my rest.
I have never comprehended the radiance that emanates from the dying leaves. It appears not to be reflected light but generated from within. Particularly on a cloudy day, each leaf shines brilliantly as if a tiny solar system cycled around it, irradiated by its golden glow. I do not want to let it pass without celebration, this fleeting moment between autumn and winter, seconds before the wind ravishes the leaves and tosses them carelessly to the sky. I want to hold onto the leaves, pressing them into my mind, painting them with thick chiaroscuro strokes of pure pigment. If I turn my head, if I look away in busiedness, I may miss it, this dying of a million suns.
Nothing is wasted by the loss of leaves, but rather they are speedily dispatched to be shared by the ecosystem of which they are an integral part. I know all about the leaves turning to sugar and falling to the ground to be used as compost to nourish the soil. I'm a gardener, after all, and comprehend the overall genius of the master plan. But nothing makes me more sentimental.
I do not willingly allow the past to be flung away in gusts of time. I yearn for past autumns when my children walked down the street carpeted with leaves, backpacks flung over a shoulder, books curled in an arm. The light is suspended in tiny fluttering suns above them, around them, and below. Yet in my memory they are always walking away from me, always going towards some thing, some where, some one else. It is a selfish longing, to hold onto leaves, children, the past. They go the way they are meant to by the master gardener. Only in trying to grasp the present do we lose it. Let them be swept up into the azure sky, trusting that they will flutter down gently to be used mightily in another time and place.
2 comments:
So in looking out into the sky with those leaves flitting about so high, don't see that they are leaving but that they are on a mission from the one who planted them, the one who gave them live and the one who brings out their brilliance. The leaves grow until their time. The get as big and strong as they can. Then they shed their shyness and put on their best colors and jump to the party. Picture all of those leaves mingling in the streets with all of the formal attire glowing in colors so bright. All colors are together. Yellow, orange, green, brown, pink, red, gold, purple, burgundy, etc. All together laughing in the wind and dancing together like in a parade. Not leaving to neglect or leave anyone behind but to dance before the One who made them. Dancing to show there is no color separation. The wind does not pick and choose which to carry along. The sun does not pick or choose which to shine on. They can dance together. The trees do look somber once the leaves have all gone. But they get to rest when the snow comes along. Quiet, clean, serenity...snow. Then in the spring, they will begin again and send another batch of leaves to mingle in the streets. Fall to me is not forlorn, but a joy or vibrance, an energy, a whisper from God to say, mingle with me and my colors, we like to dance and smile and glow in the sun. And my peace is upon you in every season, giving you hope to each of us, since time began. Not to conflict or differ in meaning, but to add to your sentiment, this is autumn to me.
"The autumn seeks the depression.Nature is dieing and the depression is some kind of the death,the death of all alive processes.Something needs for something other,to realize his sens,the personal "logos".The meet seeks for the salt,dry earth seeks the wather,the grass seeks,for exemple,the drew,and the autumn,maybe,the depression.But, is it strong desire just the possibility for one "nihil"/nothingness/to embrace us and to break the every sens,to oppose itself to the "logos" as the ground of the life...?/A few of my sentences.Sorry for my modest english,thank's for place and my congratulations for 7 grands/.
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