I’ve been crying a lot lately. It seems a rather foolish thing to do. It seems so self-centered, so self-indulgent, so preoccupied with one’s own thoughts. As if I were somehow the center of the world. As if I somehow commanded the attention of everything around me. It is self-pity, and I must not do it for too long.
It happens every year at this time, though. My eyes ache with the beauty all around me,
the beauty I know will soon be gone. The
trees put on a fabulous display of amazingly beautiful colors. They won’t cry, so I’ll cry for them. I’ll cry for the lost greenery and the
fleeting wondrous colors of joy and abandonment. The animals all fatten themselves up, gorging
on the harvest. They feverishly make
their dens and nests, and they find the secret places to go in the winter. They won’t cry either, so I’ll cry for
them. I’ll cry for the lost comfort of
the summer warmth and the ease of finding food.
 |
| Even in death, there is life. |
The air will grow strangely quiet. Only the clicking of
twigs and the creaking of old tree trunks will be heard. There will be no more birdsong, and the
hermit thrush has long since left. The
air won’t cry, though, so I’ll cry for it.
I’ll cry for the loss of the sweet songs and the busy hum of
insects. And soon, even the water will
grow still. Its trickles and rushes and
flows will all freeze, locked in a season of death like some sort of macabre
mannequin. But the water won’t cry--even
the water won’t! So I’ll cry for it.
I’ll cry for everything, everything that won’t cry for itself. I’ll shed my own river of tears as I walk
through the still and silent Earth, feeling sorry for myself, really. Eventually, I will cry myself out. Eventually, I will see that even where
everything appears dead, there is always life springing forth in brilliant
little bubbles of wonder and joy. When
my eyes are finally dry, I will see that there was never a need for such tears,
that life has been holding me all along.
But every year, I need to be reminded by life that I am still here.
