Wednesday, October 23, 2013
I cannot claim to love the fall
I cannot, will not, despite its wiles, claim to love it. Fall leaves me feeling weak. Superficial. I ignore her message, disregard her true character, while admiring her beauty.
How can something that is dying be so stunning? How can we walk amongst the death, feel it thick and moldering beneath our feet, hear the crunch of its fragile bones, smell it on the air, feel it in the anemic sunlight on our skin, yet revel so unabashedly, so irreverently, in its temperate nature? Nothing this good, this delicious, comes without consequence.
But we, I, do revel. I let my guard down. I allow myself to be bowled over. I comment, mindlessly, on the beauty of fall every single day.
It's turned the bend now. The mountains have transformed from feisty fashionistas, to aging, skeletal homeless ladies. A balding old man. A near -empty coat rack, just a few tattered jackets left hanging.
But the sun, she tries. Her dutiful perseverence is almost pathetic.
She's tiring. You can see weariness in her pale eyes. You can feel it in her nonchalant touch. She's growing weaker. Hesitant to rise in the morning. All too eager to retreat to the safety of that place, out of sight, beyond the horizon, below the distant mountain tops, at day's end.
A lot like me.