The Idle Dance Of Spent Leaves

I have become restless, like one caught in the dance of spent leaves that idly fall, drift, and coalesce within the dank undergrowth. Emotions seem to swell then fade beyond the borders of my hearts forbearance as I witness my spirit pale, standing at a distance from the place I once called home. Peeking in, for nostalgia’s sake, I desperately try to honour the reflections of the place that held my past.


The finality of an absence sits heavy and unbudegable deep inside me. All those former joys, once saturated with significance, feel now as though they are lost to me forever. There is nothing left of the panorama that embraced me as a child, save for a few overgrown trees and shrubs. The house and its contents, disrobed of all reticence, have completely vanished. Pausing in this frame of mind, I think about the toppling of that life that was once so vividly lived, that now rests remote, in both time and idiom. Curious, this combination of familiarity and stark unreality that hits you.


Glancing at that landscape that held and guided me from season to season, I feel now as though the earth is no longer aware of the child I was at that point in time, and I begin to feel sharp pangs of dissappointment. But I come here as part of the process, slogging through each moot point, even as my soul requests I turn, turn, turn back to that beginning, toward that initial diminutive. Though I speak differently now, than the child I was, I am always discovering remnants of that girlhood that rests atop the worlds forgotten ledges. No matter what, I will always be rooted to this now impotent soil, where daily life was once majestically cultivated. In time, surely this heaviness will dissipate, as I am lifted back to a more simpler present which must exist somewhere within the din of the busy world.


As I look closer with a more conscious state of mind, I catch a faint glimpse of a single burnt-orange rose, whose petals are resting just outside memory’s perimeter. Maybe the spot where the rose resides is where ones wisdom can be reclaimed as it appears before me, in perhaps a spirit of give and take. As it bends toward the light and this raw human need, other structures of consciousness emerge, slowly creating an inner coherence of so many things. Shaped by forces primary and irreducible to Mother Nature, the rose works in shifting my reality toward new perspectives with a global, timeless manner.