We all love the Fall, if we’re thinking of Thanksgiving or the harvest or any one of our birthdays, the lives of our children, the memories from our anniversaries, the crisp air and the first nip of frost. The goodness of the good parts of our season remind us that every budding has a fruition, a ripening, a gathering, a celebration.
It’s also a time of sadness for the hopes and the harvest that did not come. it seems that in these days the only ripening we take in is the swelling of our pain. We think This is my life; is this all there is? Is what I see, the smoke in the air, all that I’ve lived for this year? Is the fruit of my labor an emptiness I cannot draw out, as deep as it is?
I argue against that. I fight not to rake in all the dead red leaves, the orange and brown–all of them fallen from the tree–as if my life and theirs were together only at best loom for the compost. I fight against the aging of my body and the decay of my flesh, to believe that in this season of wholeness I am whole. I am a bud in heaven.
I celebrate our summer’s end, I suppose, for both its prosperity and for its disintegration, because I am both of them. And pleasantly so. And thankfully so. There is nothing better than to know as I a die here, my seed is rooting out in heaven for an eternal harvest whose joy and celebration and thankfulness will never end.