I love spring, innocent, bouncy, mud-puddle happy, loaded with fresh life and no guilt, little sorrow. I love summer in all its green elegance, its sweaty ambition, its long days of procreation and buzzing activity. I even love winter, the cold minimalist season that so many people find colorless and unwelcoming.
It's autumn that intrigues. Mysterious, spicy, a loose cloak of many colors spinning, spinning. The spiral, that ever-turning circle of life, is at its most brilliant in the season between growing and waiting to be reborn. Anyone who loves the concept of reincarnation cannot help but lift a bouquet of lovely colored leaves to their face and inhale the scent of tomorrow's gardens and fields. Autumn is what it is, ripe and ready, decked out in colors of fire and lorded over by a crown of sapphire or blue topaz sky.
Welcome to apples, cinnamon, pumpkins, whispering corn fodder shocks, heaps of leaves with laughing children and happy dogs, warm sweaters, and a chuckling, happy fire safely contained. Oh, yes, and marshmallows and bonfires.
I stay outside all I can, if I'm able. When I can't go out, I look at the woods and the sleeping garden spaces and think, "Tomorrow." The open spaces call me. I was born to them, grew up with them, and will lay the bones among them someday. The ancestors are here, and many a redtail hawk has flown across this land, many a fox or deer or rabbit has trod it. This place is the place home came to be by accident and perhaps design.
Every falling leaf I see is a prayer, this year. Happiness and satisfaction tells me that tomorrow's hope, the same as today's, rests in the yondering past. Prayers are what the living call on, regardless of religious or faith affiliations, when prayers from those long gone have turned to ash in memory.
Turn with the seasons, spin with the leaves. Smile, laugh, and when it's time, set your foot down and make a stand. The trees know. They throw a wild party before the wind, cast away all they own, then stand and watch it build a new future, beyond snow and ice, loss or sorrow. The Great All has sentinels. Stones and trees exist slowly, with devotion.
Can we do less?