Tuesday, October 2, 2018

October 2, 2018 - The Old Stump

There is not much left to this old tree stump.  I visit it every year to see how its demise is coming along.  “I am dying very well,” it says to me whenever I ask.  And this is, of course, true.  Tree stumps are incapable of lying.  All around it fall the brightly colored leaves full of last-minute joy, and the moss grows at the base, living among dead things.

Dying well.

I am reminded of how much we need this contrast of life and death.  The season of plenty gave us too much plenty.  At first we rejoiced.  Then we relaxed.  Finally, we languished.  Is this all there is?  We did not even see how full our plates were anymore.  How can you know fullness if you do not know emptiness?

But the Sun King has weakened once again, falling back to the West.  His fingers do not stretch as far as they used to, and he no longer burns us in chastisement for our lazy entitlement.  Soon, he will be all but gone.  I have heard the drums in the forest.  They are coming for him.

Meanwhile, the squirrels scurry frantically, storing away as much food as possible.  They at least can appreciate what they have.  Soon we, too, will be full of appreciation—but for what we have lost, not for what we have now.  Winter looms in the near distance, another obstacle on the path.  Another season of emptiness to give us blessed comparison and renew our hope through death.  It occurs to me that perhaps there are no obstacles on the path after all.  Perhaps the obstacles are the path.