Truce. . .

“Summer chased by autumn
 Autumn chased by winter
 Season cycle go from death to life
 Winter chased by springtime
 Bring a harvest or a man his wife
 Springtime’s turning. . .”

“Season Cycle”

This morning’s walk across the campus is marked by fading roses and fresh new faces; trees alive with blazing oranges, dusky reds and burnished golds; the shameless yellow of Gingko leaves amid the muted greens of Pine and Holly.

The transient nature of physical life has revealed itself in some very profound ways this year. It speaks through broken relationships and marriages undertaken, through illnesses diagnosed and overcome.  On my desk, a picture of two young girls now in their early twenties sits opposite a photograph of my own Mother, gone these last three years.

And I am also aware that everything is as it should be.

There’s no need for clinging here.  Instead I feel the peace of letting go.  Always one to paddle against the current, I’ve decided to turn and let it carry me forward.  Or perhaps it’s more appropriate to say that I’ve finally decided to simply dive in and swim.

The western part of my life has brought me this: the ability to participate in the ebb and flow of life, and simultaneously to stand on the shore and observe it.

Occasionally there is conflict between the two, but at least for now, as trees divest themselves of dying leaves, and a soft November fog brushes the cheeks of co-eds dashing between grey stone buildings, it seems as though a balance has been struck. . .


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