The last couple of days have been in the 40s temperature-wise, which I think is just perfect. Here up on Bradbury Mountain, the red barn welcomes in the fall. They’ll have pumpkins and gourds and jams for sale there, and many others things to tempt as well. All around the area now, the trees are really starting to change. We have a bit to go yet before we reach the peak, and with the bad weather coming, I just hope all the leaves won’t be blown off before they do their final show. I do so enjoy a good finale.
|Marching toward the end.|
This is the time of year I like best. The decaying leaves (as odd as it sounds) perfume the air deliciously. I wonder why that is. Most people I know love the smell of the leaves decaying. If we think about it logically, it means they have died and are decomposing. So why do we love it so much? Perhaps our senses are not as fooled by this “death” as our feeble minds are. We have been conditioned to think of the end as being such a terrible thing, and while I’d like to wait as long as possible before I reach my own, it’s somehow oddly comforting to know that my eyes and ears and nose are delighted with the end that is going on all around me.
It’s a common theme in my writing--the idea that death is just a doorway, that’s it’s just another phase, and that rebirth is always just around the corner. There are many cultures, philosophies, and religions that have dealt with this issue in an attempt to bring ease and relief to followers. In the end, we all seem to agree that somehow there is a new beginning somewhere. I don’t trifle myself with the particulars of this belief or that. It is enough for me to simply watch the trees and the animals and trust in the whispered promises they have given me.