How is it that death can be so exquisite? Really this time of year is hallucinogenic. The October sky brilliant a lazuli lapis blue. Maple trees turn a fire engine red. And the big pumpkin in the pumpkin patch glistens brilliant with morning dew. This is a hallowed season, a time to cherish the fragile, flimsy life we lead. We are made of gossamer threads—stringy bits—like the thready stuff inside a carved pumpkin. Where would we be without the dying? What if we were to live forever, to never experience the great transformation of going through death’s door? We would all just be hanger-oners, living long drawn-out lives in the sun.
It seems so strange to say that dying is beautiful, crackly like the leaf pile on the cold green grass. Children frolic there, kicking leaves high into the air. And big geese honk loudly as they migrate overhead. This is the time of year when the world trembles and dances, shimmers and quakes like aspen leaves bobbing to and fro before their final fall.
But this is not the time for wailing tears of sorrow. Nor clinging to things as they fall. Better to run fast through the clearing in the meadow, like children chasing butterflies. Time to let go of the chaff. Toss out the old shoes. Time to let go.
