Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Whitman's Got Nothing On Me
What more do you need to meditate on the transience of life here on earth than to have to rake up leaves in your yard?
I am so sick of these leaves. Why can’t they just stay on the trees?
Sure, they start out nice. Dark green in the early summer. Bright and colorful in the fall. But they have such a short time to live. I imagine it’s hard for them to find a sense of meaning and purpose. Leaves are probably stoics. Or perhaps Existentialists?
I suppose the truth is that the leaves live for the sake of the tree, right? Mindlessly, I think. I mean, that’s what they’re there for. They gather the sun for the tree. “Don’t distract me. I’m trying to photosynthesize here.” It’s all about the tree. And when the tree is finished with the leaves, it just drops them like a hot potato. They fall to the ground, an ignominious end for something so selfless.
It hardly seems fair. You might feel sorry for them.
If there weren’t so stinking many.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010