It is autumn in New England. While thousands flock to this place in the world to see the colors of the fall, foliage is merely a display of death. And I’m not sure that most regard it that way. The reds and oranges of maples, the yellows of elm and birch, even the tawny browns of oak fill the eyes and hearts of onlookers with wonder and beauty. But in truth, what enthralls them is just the evidence of death.
While the tree will likely live to see another spring and put forth yet another set of green leaves that will turn brilliant next fall, the leaves themselves will die. Just like this year’s leaves.
To me, we are like the leaves. Humanity is like the tree. Someday, we will all come to the end of our individual season. And perhaps, if we have lived well and full, we will be remembered as having been part of something much bigger than ourselves.
But in the end, it is the tree that goes on. The leaves just blow away.