From where in this world can we not draw our instruction on how to live? Could we not as simply and without thought conclude that it is to the trees and their colors that we gather purpose and direction on how next to grow, next to root, next to green, and lastly to golden pre-brown; leeching color to prepare our beds with insulation in the form of moisture-less decaying crowns? Who has designed the seasons that it should not be so with us as it is with the vine maples of Wallingford and the Japanese maples of Edgewood? What more perfect rose pink can be found than in the tips of these past golden, soon falling umbrellas? Do not feathers, when underfoot, remind us of the peacock, crow and flamingo? As we molt and leave decay, do we do so gloriously, or with dark, downcast, sorrowful looks?
All according to God’s plan. And with all, be it death or Spring, birth or rainbow-scattered Fall, He has designed for us contemplate, witness, rage, and celebrate. I wonder at passing wonders as I drive my parents’ Volkswagen down a stretch of freeway. And, in between my times of grave confusion and general consternation, do hope to pause at the glory of this season; both in life and in this city’s life.
albaniacalling 