Our green stroller crunches along the sidewalk over crisp dry leaves. Green snow
dances all around us as a soft breeze drifts through full branches blanketing
the sky above us. Green ivy camoflouges itself against a red brick building.
Even
as life slips from the extremities of these tall giants, they appear to burst
with the fire of a new life. We make the surprising discovery that orange and purple are shades of
green.
This burst of color, this snap of fresh air feels like new life to me. To my mind, based on my experience, this is the sign that good things are coming. The harsh sun, the thick humidity, the unrelenting temperatures will break, if even only for a matter of weeks. A reprieve from the summer heat. A reminder of childhood autumns, the climax of full sensory beauty.
We can not get enough of the beautiful sight. If we are not outdoors enjoying the way sound travels through crisp air, the way bright leaves feel under our eager feet, we are gazing at the beauty from indoors. I wonder how many thousands of writers have tried to capture this seasonal, fleeting moment in a net of words. Enough to make me feel silly for trying.
And yet, as my eyes widen, and my smile beams, I see the gazes around me squinch beneath furrowed brows. The words pouring forth from my heart do not seem to capture the sentiments that surround me.
Here, in our first year in New England, autumn is falling all around us. And for our neighbors who know how to live life in this place, it is not the dawning of reprieve, it is the slippery slope into the dark winter months. It is the beginning of the end.
But so it is. Death and life. More closely knit than we ever want to admit. At times, indistinguishable. At times, inextricable. Are we foolish to soak in the energy and the sense of life, in face of the pending darkness? What is it we are falling into?
