Nature's way

My morning walk starts downhill.  Almost as if to say that everyday should begin with a gentle roll out of bed, not an upright jolt to the sound of a blaring alarm clock.

At the bottom of the hill awaits a sanctuary of deep gold maples that frame the city park in a heavenly hue and carpets the ground with piles of orange delight for the children to roll in.

No children are rolling at this early hour, but I can hear the crunch and crackle of the dry leaves under my feet.  For a moment I cringe at the thought of having their jagged and itchy edges against my skin.  My brothers always seemed to find a way to shove handfuls of them down my shirt when we were kids.  It was impossible to get every piece out, so it poked at me the rest of the day.

The cement pool looks mournful with no water left inside it to sparkle in the sunlight, and a fat-cheeked squirrel seems out of place as it darts left and right under the diving board, scavenging deliriously for any scrap of food, as though winter were arriving tomorrow.

I trudge down through the park, through the awning of the tree branches and as the last arbor of branches bids me farewell, the wind is there to greet my face with a chilly "hello."  Instantly I wish I had my coffee with me.

Passing the gardens along the river walk, I see the bristled chocolate heads of the black-eyed-susans.  They appear stiff like Autumn's goose bumps, rigid in the chill of the north breeze.  Do you know the scientific name for a black-eyed-susan?  It's Rudbekia.  What a great word.  Something with a name like that should be hardy, long lasting, and stunning.  I'm sure these flowers were just that no more than a few weeks ago. 

Turning south, an eerie mist over the ragged pond levitates upward in a seamless connection with the drooping gray clouds above.  A lone, drawn-out honk of a goose sounds nearby.  As though a foghorn were guiding the other geese to safe landing.

The saturated black bark of the half-naked trees attach the earth to the sky, as the blotches of colored leaves adorn their framework. 

For forty-five minutes, the rich October morning lets me forget that anything outside of nature's creations exists.  I can marvel at the simple, and stand in awe of the complex.  Both precision and passion exist in a no less than perfect balance.

Are there really people who have never stopped to notice this before?  For what better way to put oneself aright, than to simply be reminded that we have little meaning in this world at all.  What freedom comes from complete submission to understanding we are but one of trillions of miracles that this universe has borne.  

How magnificent is it to be so gently reminded of the reality of mortality, and the passing of time through nature.  And all before seven o'clock in the morning.