Only days ago I remarked with a degree of astonishment that it was the middle of September. I know the season is progressing. But it wasn’t until this morning, while on my tricycle, rounding a corner, that I noted with tangible alarm that overnight the season had changed.  Suddenly there were copper coloured leaves on the trees. And sadly only moments later when chatting with a neighbour alongside the roadway, I learned of the death of three-year old child mere seconds earlier at the home immediately across the street. Lately the devious patterns of abrupt misfortune have caused me to tremble – a 9 year old boy killed under a passing school bus; a young mother killed by a falling tree branch. The capricious nature of life is beyond freakish.

The mournful and irreversible nature of these events is totally unaccountable. Nor does it help in my opinion to corrupt the loss with philosophic or religious theses. The only thing that came to mind was the image of a robin having to endure the death of its nestling. Nature in all matters is the only thing that comes close to teaching us how to die. Just as the leaves fall from the trees.

Allowing this constant exposure to limitation is not a posture to be enhanced.  Instead I find it wiser to rise above the impossible loss and move forward. Granted this scheme is tainted by an element of escapism; but I see little if any advantage to dwell upon what is irreparable. By contrast – at least with respect to the falling leaves – I am provoked to create an artistic rendition of the diminution. Upon the broader spectrum of this metaphor there may be worthiness to do so. I accept it is easy for those who haven’t suffered the immediate loss to tell others the value of rising above it; but, even accepting the impossibility of doing so, there really is no other alternative.  And life’s chance encounters are far too precipitous to ignore the prospect.

The lessons or instruction to be derived from these blunt admissions are numerous and oft repeated though not always with the identical urgency. I am at least convinced of the logic of the present only. The denuded trees cannot be reclothed. There is no other direction to be pursued. Contaminating our future with the rigours of the past is a heedless mooring. Like the robin and the deciduous trees the manifestations of nature are irrevocable. This does not make it any easier to subscribe to positivity but its character of self-preservation contains a measure of clarity and ingenuity.