Of what will I be in awe of right now, right here, sitting against a tree in Overton Park, dusk arriving, people leaving? How can we call this blanket of leaves so beautiful; how can it be? How can what is now dying be so full of color and interest to me still? Does each one know it is not wasted, that it will go on to nourish new life? It must know; it must.
Surely no one leaf could keep this secret from the others, and so I am left to think they are each at peace with their life and death’s purpose: to grow, to live, to be beautiful, to fall down, to die while still beautiful.
May I find such acceptance, too.
Written on Friday, October 25, 2024