Just a few months ago our city looked something like this.
Late into November we were still enjoying the spread of color above our heads. Each year I think new shades of burnt orange and fiery red must be born in those leaves. It was beautiful. It is always beautiful.
Nearly everyone loves autumn.
Perhaps not everyone loves what the season implies is on its way: winter. But I hardly think you could find a person in this city who doesn’t find themselves in awe of all the streets bursting out in color at some point in the fall season.
And while most of the trees now look something like this,
Nearly everyone loves autumn.
Perhaps not everyone loves what the season implies is on its way: winter. But I hardly think you could find a person in this city who doesn’t find themselves in awe of all the streets bursting out in color at some point in the fall season.
And while most of the trees now look something like this,
It is still beautiful.
A different kind of beautiful.
There are a good number of the season’s colored remnants still carpeting lawns and gathering in the gutter. Though many have been raked and bagged and taken away. Like those that fell on the front lawn of a sweet old man named Pete, who was still raking one day last week when I was passing by. I stopped and told him how much I had loved to play in the leaves when I was young. He told me how much he hated to rake them now. But the smirk on his face and his immaculate yard said otherwise. I imagine he was out there again yesterday, collecting those that the wind had blown from the neighbor’s yard into his. And for those that Pete didn’t get, the 7:00am street cleaner carried a number of them away this morning.
But Pete cannot bag them all – and even the determined street cleaner cannot sweep us totally clean - and I’m happy for that. Happy that though winter has met us and we no longer have the abundance of fall colors to look upon, we still have these.
A different kind of beautiful.
There are a good number of the season’s colored remnants still carpeting lawns and gathering in the gutter. Though many have been raked and bagged and taken away. Like those that fell on the front lawn of a sweet old man named Pete, who was still raking one day last week when I was passing by. I stopped and told him how much I had loved to play in the leaves when I was young. He told me how much he hated to rake them now. But the smirk on his face and his immaculate yard said otherwise. I imagine he was out there again yesterday, collecting those that the wind had blown from the neighbor’s yard into his. And for those that Pete didn’t get, the 7:00am street cleaner carried a number of them away this morning.
But Pete cannot bag them all – and even the determined street cleaner cannot sweep us totally clean - and I’m happy for that. Happy that though winter has met us and we no longer have the abundance of fall colors to look upon, we still have these.
And these, well, these are my favorites.
At first glance, they look ordinary.
Perhaps boring, bland, as if they have lost their vibrancy. They’ve just enough color left to reveal that they haven’t died up there.
They easily go unnoticed. But they’re up there and they're hanging on. You need only crank your head towards the sky every now and then and you'll see them.
Their body is anything but perfect. Their edges are worn and tired, crumpling inward, and fatigued. For many, their stems have wilted under the weight of themselves – but tenaciously, they hold to their branch.
Yes, these are my favorites.
In a season that seems to say their time has passed, they hold strong. Fighting winds and temperatures that want to rob them of their place in this world, they appear broken and tattered, but they remain.
I love them for this. I love them for what they speak.
They remind us:
Though the pretty may fall, the seemingly weak possess a strength that too often goes unseen.
At first glance, they look ordinary.
Perhaps boring, bland, as if they have lost their vibrancy. They’ve just enough color left to reveal that they haven’t died up there.
They easily go unnoticed. But they’re up there and they're hanging on. You need only crank your head towards the sky every now and then and you'll see them.
Their body is anything but perfect. Their edges are worn and tired, crumpling inward, and fatigued. For many, their stems have wilted under the weight of themselves – but tenaciously, they hold to their branch.
Yes, these are my favorites.
In a season that seems to say their time has passed, they hold strong. Fighting winds and temperatures that want to rob them of their place in this world, they appear broken and tattered, but they remain.
I love them for this. I love them for what they speak.
They remind us:
Though the pretty may fall, the seemingly weak possess a strength that too often goes unseen.