Mercy in the Madness

Driving the kids to school, I see my favorite trees. The glowing cloud of coral leaves on the one at the corner by the preschool. The dazzling crimson of the one at the curve coming into our neighborhood. The burnished fuchsia of the burning bush shrubs that line the road in front of the corporate center down the street. The gold ones that, year after year, never fail to impress with their riot of color that defines this explosive time of year. The sudden burst of brilliance, like a firecracker, that sparkles suddenly into existence then gently but just as suddenly fades out, leaving a mote of white spots on your vision.

November is full of those white spots. They say that autumn shows us the beauty of letting go, and I’m sure this is true, but once the trees finish letting go, there is quiet. Pale grays and muted purples and a million shades of brown and gray, earth tones. The color sucked out. The cold set in. The leaves, in all their beauty, have fallen and rusted over, to crunch underfoot and emit that wet, sweet, decay smell through the sharp, cold weeks that follow. The beauty here is less vivid – you have to look for it.

Years ago, a friend of my mother’s gently told her she was entering a season of sadness. A reminder that seasons come and go, that this too shall pass. When it feels as if there can never be a return to joy, it will surprise you like the first winter snow.

I think of a friend who recently died, and of his family having to walk through their season of sadness. Greif is a quiet place. The color sucked out. The cold set in. Having to let go is not such a beautiful thing, but it is a part of life. Loss weaves through everything, piling up on the pathways beneath our feet as we put one foot in front of the other, step by step.

We walk through the quiet, colorless places, because there is no where else to go. We have to be more careful to look for the beauty; to keep putting one foot in front of the other, step by step. We have to remember that sadness is a season, that even though the loss remains, there will eventually be joy to help fill up the empty places. It may be November, but the first snow of winter is on the way, and later the first screech of spring peepers, the first crocus raising its iridescent face to the sun.