Maple leaf

September 29, 2014

Greetings from the sentience,

I stood outside in the violet grey of the morning.  The air was damp, there were specters of fog lingering in unlikely places.  The stars had only just wandered west, swept by the dim introduction the sun cast from beyond the east horizon.  I could feel a change.

Earlier in the week I told someone that the equinox had come, and it hardly seemed like fall.  Almost no leaves had changed.  Outside the weather was warm and sunny as if nature was proud that it fooled the calendar.  Summer regaled us. 

That was the last I thought of it, and I went back to my march, grinding through the days, focused on the forward motion of my feet.  Until this morning.

I stood at the edge of the woods, a mad riot of trees, mashed together with the random chaos of nature, untouched by landscaper’s dignity or organization.  Deciduous and conifers lumped together as if waiting to be sorted out into teams.

And I noticed it, I could feel the change.  I felt it as I breathed in the morning air, felt it catch in my lungs, smelled the difference.  Portends of pumpkins, apples, cider, hot tea.  Musty, cool, the smell of wood burning.  The sensation of wool sweaters folded waiting, jackets that had not been zipped in months.

A maple tree caught my attention, waving at me, beckoning.  One branch stretched out, a rebellious knotty finger pointing out from the rest of the tree.  At the end there was a cluster of perfect leaves, models for the Canadian flag, perhaps.  I ran my hand over the bouquet of green blades and held on to one broad leaf on the end of the twig.

I could tell it was young and naïve.  All leaves are in their freshman year.  I smiled at the idea that no one had given it the orientation on this season.  I tried to explain to it what was coming, without sounding too melancholy. 

The wind lifted the branches again, rustling the leaf and his cousins, fluttering on their lithe stalks, still flexible and supple, not ready to let go.  Not ready for the slow drift down. 

I explained that this was not the end, just a change of season.  Is it death, I asked out loud?  It is a philosophical question.  It is not death in the literal sense.  The tree, and by extension, the leaves, simply are in hibernation, waiting for another cue.  The leaves will fall and disintegrate and become part of the soil, forming nutrients for the tree so that in the spring new leaves can sprout.

Will this exact leaf, this same shape, thickness, configuration of veins and ribs appear?  Perhaps.  It might be a question to ask the snowflakes later. 

I let the leaf go and it shook itself like a puppy and wagged in the wind again.  It still held the ebullience of a spring leaf, not affected by my little monologue.  The tree clattered and rustled, as if to respond to me.  A tree telling me that I shouldn’t worry about it.

I stood back and looked up into the green and saw what I had missed before.  Patches of yellow, clusters of orange and rust.  Leaves of greater experience, already knowing what I had tried to tell my green friend at the lower branch.  They waved, wise leaves, and promised to share their understanding with the branches below.

Gifts come to us in many packages.  They might be light or warmth or laughter.   Sometimes the colors or scents of the moment, but first, always first, the gift of being aware.

Hope this finds you opening it,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith