Ah! The beauty and serenity of a fine, spring morning! As the sounds and smells of the morning “make ready” waft around the Hovel, I sit me down to write to you this little bit of correspondence.
Outside my front door, it seems that winter is still putting up a very valiant fight and is sternly and obstinately refusing to let spring have the day. She has won a few of the battles of late, but it seems that the war is being controlled by old man winter for the moment. They go through this every year, of course, and spring almost invariably wins her rightful place, though winter sometimes forces her into a very short reign. Funny how summer always seems to come in rather quietly and without much opposition from spring (I suppose her will and strength is always sapped from her epic battles with the old man—boorish old fart that he is).
I do not look forward to the coming of summer. I don’t like the heat, the bugs, the throngs of loud and destructive sight seers, and all the rest of the burdensome accoutrements that come along with the season. Nope—give me fall any time! Now that’s a season for you. She’s gentle and nice; never too cold, never too hot—and always wears the most beautiful and colorful clothes (you just have to love someone who knows what to wear.) Yes, indeed, fall is my kind of season. Thanksgiving turkey, Halloween candy, pumpkin pies (many pumpkin pies, thank you very much!) Man, it seems like fall was just hanging around here, but here we are waiting for winter to give up the ghost and move on (I think that winter secretly has a thing for spring, hence the yearly battles and such—he’s pulling spring’s pigtails, so to speak.)
Fall (or, “autumn” in proper company) gets no respect. I mean, think about it for a minute—when’s the last time you heard somebody extolling the wonders of fall? How many times do you hear people say, “Boy! I sure wish fall would get here!” The answer, of course, is never. No one seems to like fall at all. Maybe that’s why I like her, she’s an outcast; a “throwaway” season. Poor thing! Standing over in the corner at the prom waiting for someone, anyone, to just come over and say hello. I suppose in our guilt over ignoring her so much, we gave her two names. Yeah, like that eases the pain of being ignored! No, sir (or ma’am), I do not ignore autumn. I wait patiently for her to arrive every year. I would love to find a place to live that looked like autumn in the Appalachian foothills year-round. (If you’ve never seen the Appalachian foothills in the fall, you are missing something.)
Ah, to be walking along a colorful, leaf strewn path in the middle of a labyrinthine stand of tree trunks with a cool, crisp breeze gently caressing the skin of my cheeks and listening to the songs of a few, brave birds who haven’t yet taken flight from the burgeoning emergence of the old man. Here and there you can still see flecks of green grass poking inquisitive heads up from under the piles of golden and brown leaves. There is a stillness during autumn that does not occur in any other season; a very active stillness, a purposeful stillness—the stillness of a world that is preparing itself for a long slumber. I could stand on a hill side and experience that stillness for the rest of my days and be as content as a babe nestled in his mother’s loving arms; just getting ready to sleep.
Each year, when fall comes around, I feel as if I am embraced and comforted by an old friend. Fall “resonates” with me, for some reason. I suppose it’s because she is so playfully brooding. Fall is the synopsis of life giving over to death, and she does it in such a vividly colorful way as to make death seem not so bad. If the natural world can welcome death with such a magnificent display of colors and beauty, then how much more could (or should) I? I wouldn’t say that I am infatuated with dying, but I will say that I have always wanted to go in a dignified manner. I’m reminded of a story about Chuang Tzu on his death bed:
“When Chuang Tzu was about to die, his disciples expressed a wish to give him a splendid funeral. But, Chuang Tzu said: ‘With heaven and earth for my coffin and shell; with the sun, moon, and stars as my burial regalia; and with all creation to escort me to the grave,--is this not all the funeral paraphernalia I will need?’
‘We fear,’ argued his students, ‘lest the carrion kites should eat the body of our teacher;’ to which Chuang Tzu replied: ‘Above ground I shall be food for kites; below I shall be food for worms. Why rob one to feed the other?’”
I have no doubt in my mind that some such conversation took place amongst Chuang Tzu and his students. I do not doubt for a minute that Chuang was as detached and realistic in that moment as the story portrays (of course, one must realize that these sorts of things do get romanticized a great deal). Well, that’s how I hope to greet death, with a flare of poetic charm and a stern realistic outlook. Yesiree! I hope I can be that way when it’s time for me to go. I read somewhere that while Thoreau lay dying in his room from pneumonia, a very pious relative inquired of him if he had made his peace with God, to which Thoreau responded: “I was unaware we had ever quarreled.” I also read that Thoreau’s very last words were “buffalo” and “Indians”. Interesting choice of words for one who had spent a great deal of his life dedicated to constructing such perfect sentences.
But, speaking of quarrels, winter and spring are at it again out there, and I feel like I must intervene and tell them to knock it off. I tell you, I get so tired of those two bickering all the time! Winter simply must learn that he can’t hog all the fun. Besides, he’s making my feet cold, and I hate having cold feet.
peace, wayf
道道
常可
非道
