A Blaze Of Glory

I opened the curtains this morning and there it was! The first colors of Autumn had finally begun to peek out. The tree in front of my window seemed to have turned orange overnight, although I suspect that I was just too wrapped up in myself to see the gradual changes. In the distance, the hills are tipped with reds and oranges, like a woman frosting the tips of her hair. I am almost giddy over the discovery. You'd think that it was Christmas, and yet, if you think about it, all this color and blazing glory is just a prelude to a sort of dying as the year draws to a close and all goes silent under a blanket of snow and long, cold, grey days. So why the big finish?

Autumn reminds me of the Dylan Thomas poem: "Do Not Go Gentle In To That Good Night:"

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I love that idea! I understand that the poem is speaking mostly of death and dying, but it also speaks to me of the death of my spirit. It tells me that as I get older, there is nothing holding me back from releasing all of my "colors," those things that make me who I am. There is no longer anyone to impress, or please. I am the aging flower child going into the winter of my life in a blaze of glory. I am the burnt oranges of a sunset, the rich reds of roses in bloom, the golden joy of a sunrise, and the sturdy bronzes of the ages. And, like the trees, once my colors are done for the year, I save my energy for the seeds that sleep under the snow only to burst forth again in Spring with green buds on the very trees I leave naked at the end of Autumn. I use the time to plan, and dream, and wait for the day when the snow is gone, the sun is warm, and my spirit tells me, "Now! Now is the time! Bloom, darling, bloom."

So, yes, I am celebrating this blaze of glory that is Autumn with shouts, and smiles, and love in my heart. I'll collect leaves to make window decorations with the children, and collect pine cones to turn into feeders for the birds and Christmas ornaments, and I'll make applesauce, and drink cider, and always, always, open my curtains in the morning with grace and gratitude for this holy palette before me. 

And so it is.