By Teric Darken (Autumn, Burn, Death)
Autumn. I always found it peculiar that there was so much beauty within the season: A season signifying passing… The season of death.
As I continued raking the leaves – those crisp, brittle wafers of burnt orange, mustard yellow and crimson red – my mind tuned in to an old Byrd’s song:
“To everything, turn, turn, turn… There is a season, turn, turn, turn…”
Prophetic, I mused as I surveyed my aging hands holding the rake, now chapped and chafed within October’s brisk air. It seemed only yesterday that I was a teenager, raking my parent’s yard. My hands reminded me those days were long gone… Just as my parents were… Same as The Byrds were…
A scented tendril captivated my nostrils and drew my attention elsewhere; I began surveying the atmosphere like a wolf.
Ah, the sweet scent of smoke. No doubt a crackling fire under someone’s hearth, or, perhaps, another’s leafy burn pile.
“Whaddya say, Neighbor?”
The voice drew me away from my naturally stoned state. “Oh, hey, Jesse. How ya doin’?”
He, too, surveyed the crisp, smoky-sweet air before beaming a smile bright as the sky’s mellow sun. “Man, I’m doing wonderful! I love this time of year.”
“Yeah, me too, though I’m not sure why.”
The neighborhood’s master gardener eased into my yard. It was easy to see he was on that same proverbial high. “Ah, Man, just look around: The sun’s burning cool… The multi-colored foliage… The crisp air…” He drew a deep breath. “Ahh… And that sweet smoke!”
Who was I to disagree? I continued raking. “Oh, I’m right there with ya, Pal. But I can’t help but think: Doesn’t it seem a bit bittersweet?”
“How so? You referring to our ‘gentle reminder?’”
“By ‘gentle reminder,’ you mean the notion that all things are passing away?”
He gave me a subtle wink coupled with that same broad grin. “That would be the one.”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s always in the back of my head somewhere. Autumn is my favorite season: So beautiful, so mesmerizing, so… ironic. Ironic that there is so much beauty in, well, death.”
“Indeed. And it seems that way from our perspective: ironic. Nature tells us a lot about life… and death. We see the signs every day. Many simply don’t take the time to notice.”
“So what exactly am I looking for? What am I being told?”
“There’s an order to everything. Take, for instance, the sun: The sun’s the head honcho. Everything revolves around the sun. And if we failed to do our part – to revolve around the sun – well, it’d be catastrophic. We’d burn up.
“Then there’s the moon, reflecting the sun’s light as a beacon – guiding us along the way on those especially dark nights. There’s a give and take with everything: The plants and trees with their carbon dioxide/oxygen exchange, the oceans, seas and sky providing water through gas exchange, the food chain… And our responsibility to care for it all.”
I momentarily mulled it over as I continued raking. After a few inward strokes, I had to hit the pause button. “Jesse, does it ever seem a bit pointless to you? Like what’s the use? Are all of our labors in vain insomuch that we’re only here for, well, a season? Are we merely as these leaves?”
A gentle chuckle emerged from his mouth. “The seasons also tell us much. There is a time for everything: The birth throughout Spring, the living of Summer, the dying process within the Fall, and when all lays to rest under Winter’s blanket.”
“So that’s the end, then? The finality of Winter? It truly seems so futile.”
Jesse stooped down and scooped up a leaf. After admiring its vivid hue, he crumbled it within his clutch. I watched as the brittle flakes danced from his hand into the crisp breeze. “Our lives are similar in many respects, though we are not these leaves. Tell me: If all is futile, why, then, are you raking these leaves into a pile?”
“Well, there’s the annual bon fire I have for my family. We roast marshmallows and make s’mores, cook hotdogs… But, ultimately, I do it just to burn the leaves… To leave room for the grass to grow.”
“So, you’re making preparations then?”
“Yeah, I suppose so, for a healthy yard come Spring.”
“Then perhaps all is not futile, though our lives bear resemblance to the leaves. We do our part: We participate in the carbon dioxide/oxygen exchange, and then we move along, making way for the buds to come. Isn’t that what you’re doing by raking the leaves: Leaving room for the grass to grow in knowing you’ll be providing your family with a lush lawn come spring? Or, perhaps, to enjoy but a moment in time with your family?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“You keep on keeping on because you care. You love. You know the end result here, but you forge forth regardless. You’re paving the way for your loved ones behind you.”
That October breeze began to sting my eyes. Water made a film over my pupils. My mouth quivered. “B – But I’m going to burn the leaves, Jesse.”
A comforting hand rested on my shoulder. “That’s right, Friend, you burn them. You let them go. You make room for more. The old passes, the new comes.”
The words came hard, especially while choking down sorrow and regret. “Our lives are b – but a leaf… Winter’s r – right around the corner.”
“You’re not the leaf, Good Neighbor. Bits and pieces of your life are as the leaf: We change, and the old is given to the wind. You are the tree, having taken root in good soil. For the tree relying on Spring’s shining sun returns to life.”
Autumn. I always found it peculiar that there was so much beauty within the season: A season signifying passing… The season of death.
As I continued raking the leaves – those crisp, brittle wafers of burnt orange, mustard yellow and crimson red – my mind tuned in to an old Byrd’s song:
“To everything, turn, turn, turn… There is a season, turn, turn, turn…”
Prophetic, I mused as I surveyed my aging hands holding the rake, now chapped and chafed within October’s brisk air. It seemed only yesterday that I was a teenager, raking my parent’s yard. My hands reminded me those days were long gone… Just as my parents were… Same as The Byrds were…
A scented tendril captivated my nostrils and drew my attention elsewhere; I began surveying the atmosphere like a wolf.
Ah, the sweet scent of smoke. No doubt a crackling fire under someone’s hearth, or, perhaps, another’s leafy burn pile.
“Whaddya say, Neighbor?”
The voice drew me away from my naturally stoned state. “Oh, hey, Jesse. How ya doin’?”
He, too, surveyed the crisp, smoky-sweet air before beaming a smile bright as the sky’s mellow sun. “Man, I’m doing wonderful! I love this time of year.”
“Yeah, me too, though I’m not sure why.”
The neighborhood’s master gardener eased into my yard. It was easy to see he was on that same proverbial high. “Ah, Man, just look around: The sun’s burning cool… The multi-colored foliage… The crisp air…” He drew a deep breath. “Ahh… And that sweet smoke!”
Who was I to disagree? I continued raking. “Oh, I’m right there with ya, Pal. But I can’t help but think: Doesn’t it seem a bit bittersweet?”
“How so? You referring to our ‘gentle reminder?’”
“By ‘gentle reminder,’ you mean the notion that all things are passing away?”
He gave me a subtle wink coupled with that same broad grin. “That would be the one.”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s always in the back of my head somewhere. Autumn is my favorite season: So beautiful, so mesmerizing, so… ironic. Ironic that there is so much beauty in, well, death.”
“Indeed. And it seems that way from our perspective: ironic. Nature tells us a lot about life… and death. We see the signs every day. Many simply don’t take the time to notice.”
“So what exactly am I looking for? What am I being told?”
“There’s an order to everything. Take, for instance, the sun: The sun’s the head honcho. Everything revolves around the sun. And if we failed to do our part – to revolve around the sun – well, it’d be catastrophic. We’d burn up.
“Then there’s the moon, reflecting the sun’s light as a beacon – guiding us along the way on those especially dark nights. There’s a give and take with everything: The plants and trees with their carbon dioxide/oxygen exchange, the oceans, seas and sky providing water through gas exchange, the food chain… And our responsibility to care for it all.”
I momentarily mulled it over as I continued raking. After a few inward strokes, I had to hit the pause button. “Jesse, does it ever seem a bit pointless to you? Like what’s the use? Are all of our labors in vain insomuch that we’re only here for, well, a season? Are we merely as these leaves?”
A gentle chuckle emerged from his mouth. “The seasons also tell us much. There is a time for everything: The birth throughout Spring, the living of Summer, the dying process within the Fall, and when all lays to rest under Winter’s blanket.”
“So that’s the end, then? The finality of Winter? It truly seems so futile.”
Jesse stooped down and scooped up a leaf. After admiring its vivid hue, he crumbled it within his clutch. I watched as the brittle flakes danced from his hand into the crisp breeze. “Our lives are similar in many respects, though we are not these leaves. Tell me: If all is futile, why, then, are you raking these leaves into a pile?”
“Well, there’s the annual bon fire I have for my family. We roast marshmallows and make s’mores, cook hotdogs… But, ultimately, I do it just to burn the leaves… To leave room for the grass to grow.”
“So, you’re making preparations then?”
“Yeah, I suppose so, for a healthy yard come Spring.”
“Then perhaps all is not futile, though our lives bear resemblance to the leaves. We do our part: We participate in the carbon dioxide/oxygen exchange, and then we move along, making way for the buds to come. Isn’t that what you’re doing by raking the leaves: Leaving room for the grass to grow in knowing you’ll be providing your family with a lush lawn come spring? Or, perhaps, to enjoy but a moment in time with your family?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“You keep on keeping on because you care. You love. You know the end result here, but you forge forth regardless. You’re paving the way for your loved ones behind you.”
That October breeze began to sting my eyes. Water made a film over my pupils. My mouth quivered. “B – But I’m going to burn the leaves, Jesse.”
A comforting hand rested on my shoulder. “That’s right, Friend, you burn them. You let them go. You make room for more. The old passes, the new comes.”
The words came hard, especially while choking down sorrow and regret. “Our lives are b – but a leaf… Winter’s r – right around the corner.”
“You’re not the leaf, Good Neighbor. Bits and pieces of your life are as the leaf: We change, and the old is given to the wind. You are the tree, having taken root in good soil. For the tree relying on Spring’s shining sun returns to life.”