I captured this fellow carefully making his way over mountains of petals. He was a good model. He was slow.
It’s 9:30 on a Wednesday night. I’m sipping a vodka and tonic and listening to Haydn. The dogs, my Australian blue heeler and my wife’s German Shepherd, lie behind me patiently waiting for me to move so they can follow me, hoping, I suppose that I’ll do something exciting and they can share that moment. I love autumn. In this mountainous region, the oaks, maples, and beeches turn the hills into a rolling splash of candy colors. My drive to and from work is 45 minutes of beauty. I revel in the red, yellow, ochre and orange blend. It forms a beauty that is beyond the most talented artist’s ability. The colors are humbling, reminding me each year that leaves quietly shout out a message that in death there is colorful glory. The millions of leaves form a pattern gleaming in the afternoon sunlight that say, “We lived during our season, and now at the end of our season we are joyous. We share that joy for a moment, and then we fall to the ground where we will nourish the earth. We will feed the tree that gave us birth.” As I get older, I understand more and more that this is what life is about: being born, growing, sharing, and returning. Sure, I get caught up in the dreams and dramas of daily life. I love to write about the moments, but at the end of the day it’s all about summing up. And when it’s summed up, it’s about autumn leaves: reflection, rest and letting go. . . . Haydn, the drink, the dogs. My inner voice says, “It’s been a long day. You’ve taken yourself seriously. Now lighten up.” And so I shut things down and turn to Haydn, the drink and the dogs.
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