Sitting on the bank of a river, with the trees rustling their
drying leaves behind us on a blue sky kind of day, we were quiet.
Sheltered by the big trees around us, we didn’t really need
the jackets we had along. It was a
beautiful fall day but we weren’t roistering about or kicking up the fallen
leaves. We had walked quietly over and
through them, not really noticing them on our way to sit beside the river.
A gentle ripple of current blurred reflected trees just a
little; maybe it was the tears in our eyes but we’ll blame the current.
A few birds sailed around in the currents of that bright
clear sky. We watched them disappear
behind the trees of the far bank. Maybe they’d
be back; maybe they wouldn’t. They were
on business of their own.
An errant breeze dropped down from the currents of the sky
and from the tops of the trees above us came leaves. They had lived on the trees for the spring
and summer months but now had weakened through the chill of fall nights, the
vigor of their lives far enough gone that this little breeze was enough to
break their hold on the tree and send them into the air.
Watching them in the open sky between our trees and those on
the far side of the bank, they seemed to have been given a different kind of
life. No longer tethered to the trees,
they moved with the currents in the air as though choosing their routes
independently.
One soared high, almost out of sight, mimicking the
birds. It flew high across the width of
the river only to turn at the last moment and come down slowly spiraling at the
end to land in the water by the other bank.
One shot straight up, turned sharply in mid-air, and shot
straight down again into the water near us.
One drifted first this way and then that way, meandering its
way along. It lifted a little in a small
current and floated along in the air for a short time until it gradually
floated down to water level.
One flew out over the center of the river before it turned
stem down and twirled like a tiny tornado on its way to the river.
One rode the air in a glide that took it downstream for a
good way before ending its glide in the reflected trees.
Each leaf seemed to find its own way of making that final
descent.
Life as they had known it was attached to the trees which
had grown them.
This brief new life was of a different sort. It gave them wings. For the first time they had movement of their
own. They could ride the currents of the
sky.
As they settled into the river most of them rested in the
reflections of the trees, as though reconnecting to their origins. Even the ones that landed in the center of
the river made their way into the masses of leaves reflected in the river.
Ripples from the wind distorted the water trees; floating
leaves danced a bit, both in the air and in the river. Beached leaves gathered on fallen twigs along
the shoreline.
Throughout our quiet vigil by the river breezes of assorted
strengths sent bunches of leaves into the air over the river and we watched
their individual flights.
They all landed in the water.
At the end of their brief sky life, they continued their
journeys, going the way of the water, settling for a bit along the shore here
and there before the currents dislodged them to take them further along their
way.
When all is said and done they will become sustenance for another
generation of leaves.
And so the wind takes the leaves from tethering trees, gives
them a push and a spin in the sky, and turns them over to the river to take
floating and drifting and spinning to wherever they will come to rest finally. They and the trees have sustained each other
through their year of growth and maturity, but now it has come time for them to
let go.
It’s a fanciful notion but maybe some of those leaves, if
they could feel, would find excitement in the changes (the ones who flit here
and there, up and down, soaring and twisting and just extending their sky
life); maybe some of them would find relief (resting softly on the gentle
breezes and floating on down peacefully); maybe some of them would be angry or
afraid (the ones that made abrupt little juts in direction as though
irritable); maybe some were eager and in a hurry (no willy-nilly flitting, just
a fast straight line to the river); maybe some were curious (the ones who flew
so high and far as though to see everything possible).
We sat in contemplative silence on the bank next to the
river, with the trees sheltering us and others across the way.
Maybe, just maybe, death isn’t as abrupt as we think. Maybe we too are given a brief time (and time
is relative) to ride the wind once we’re un-tethered, to indulge the
excitement, or relief, or anger or fear, or eagerness, or curiosity, or
whatever else may come, before we settle.
Nobody knows.
Or, maybe, just maybe, the untethering comes at birth. Maybe each of us gets to ride the currents
and that brief journey is our life.
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