Reflections on Leaves

Our front porch is littered with leaves; a multi-hued memorial to yesterday’s beauty.  Each leaf a singular event, separate yet connected to the whole.  Their color fades with my memory of what was, leaving nothing but a brittle skeleton to remind me that life is short and nothing temporal lasts forever.

I am disquieted . . .

But I am not going to sweep them away.  I like how they look, the natural disarray so contrary to my organized and controlled life.  The desire to write about these leaves has haunted me for days, yet I fear spewing forth mundane and cliché thoughts on depression, decline and death.

The trees let go of their past glory and the leaves fall, though some stubbornly cling to the branches in a futile attempt to resist the changing season.  Yet death is not so much an end as it is a beginning, a step towards metamorphosis; a preparation for rebirth.

Leaves spread along the ground like rose petals on the bridal path . . .

Leaves cushioning the journey like palm branches strewn before the humble king . . .

These leaves represent my memories and I long to be the child who merrily rakes the dead fragments into piles and jumps upon them with joy, a carefree scattering to the wind.

An Attempt to Write . . . Something . . .

I like to write.  I want to write.  I don’t write.  These days I find inspiration to be as rare as a periodical not featuring Kim Kardashian though not quite as rare as a decent Presidential candidate. 

Life has wrapped her bony fingers around my neck, thumb securely placed in the hollow of my esophageal track, increasing pressure so slowly that my oxygen-deprived brain has atrophied unaware. 

And Spotify doesn’t seem to hold the answer . . .

Choosing each word is an effort; a sentence forms as painfully as a crowning newborn.  To write a long paragraph would be to endure a lifetime of grief.

Question: How do I find my inspiration again?  Do I need a muse? A therapist?  A young priest and an old priest?

My reverie interrupted by Love of Lesbian singing Los Colores De Una Sombra  . . . the colors of a shadow indeed . . . how fitting . . . Throw me another bone Spotify . . .

Kathleen Norris in her book The Cloister Walk discusses the designation of “despair” as an aspect of the sin of pride.  She states, “I find this designation enormously helpful.  Among other things it defeats my perfectionism, my tendency to give up when I can’t do things ‘just right’.  But if I accept the burden of my despair . . . then I also receive the tools to defeat it.  I have a hope that no modern therapeutic approach can give me.”

To piggyback onto Kathleen’s eloquent words, some days I realize the greatest sin I could commit would be to give up.  So I don’t . . .

Random thought: How do you tell a crazy man he is crazy?  Does he know he’s crazy?  If I were crazy would I know it?  Crazy has compared to what?  Some social norm I had no say in formulating?

Spotify once again saves the day with Cults singing You Know What I Mean:  “Tell me what’s wrong with my brain cuz I’ve seemed to have lost it.”

Took a break from writing to read an article written by mi amigo Louie located here.

Rediscovering thankfulness could be just the ticket . . . After all a wise VeggieTale video once instructed me, “A thankful heart is a happy heart” . . .

Let the quest for thankfulness begin as I take up the sword against the dragons of cynicism, doubt and hopelessness . . . Die you bitches . . .