“…as the daylight turns to starlight and the Season turns to change,
I get the same old answer but the question still remains…”
Bright and early this morning I walked out onto my front porch and observed something I hadn’t seen for more than six months.
I saw chill bumps on my bare arms.
Almost as if on cue, I looked out across my yard and saw a single golden brown leaf whirl downward.
While we’ve still got a good spell of warm weather ahead, it’s encouraging to know that it’s all downhill from here.
I am glad. For this begins my favorite time of year, the Autumnal declension into crisp cold Winter days. Fall sports and activities have begun in earnest and the holiday season looms upon the horizon. Already, during cooler nights, have I smelled the first dusky fragrance of chimney smoke.
But more than this, I think about the deeper meaning of one Season’s turn into the next.
The trifling glories of Summer so soon fade and cool. The lush green landscape withers, dies in shades of slate gray and brown.
All life must someday sleep and die. Even the most radiant blossoms must be buried compost ’neath a midnight frost.
For those that see only what is revealed to them within the natural world, this is a bitter promise.
To know that one’s days are so briefly marked, that all the splendor one might enjoy are only windblown leaves after one hundred Winters.
When I wonder at my earliest recollection, those whom I still hold in fond remembrance of how they seemed so alive to me, should meet an end so abruptly. To fall into an Autumn’s rest from which there is no awakening.
I can only lament at this. Surely, it cannot be that the miracle and wonder of human existence should be so quenched with only a ceremony, a few tears and a day’s sighing. Is that all?
For some, there is yet hope in an eternal Spring.
Even as one door be closed, another is yet cast wide open.
That darkness does not quench our fire, but a greater fire still burns beyond our mortal frame.
That all the sadness, the malice, and the daily agony upon agonies that humanity wreaks upon itself are not the normal state of things, but an utter abomination from what should be.
That such shall come a wondrous day, when disease and affliction are cleansed, when the storms shall cease, when wickedness is irrevocably crushed and even death too shall die.
That the miraculous is not an aberration but a restoration, a prelude for wonders greater and greater still.
So, even as I glory in the beauty of this Season still to come, in it I consider the day that comes when all seasons are no more.
When after a brief sleep has passed, I shall awaken eternally:
“…and Death shall be no more.
Death, thou shalt die.”