Beautiful Anguish

Here's the thing about autumn works. All these beautiful, irresistible, orange and yellow and red saturated artworks.

It's dying. Everything beautiful is dying and the colors are final, pleading screams.

Is it rage? Is it desperation? Is it confusion? What's the sequence - anger, denial, bargaining, grief, and finally acceptance? No, definitely not acceptance. Nothing is going along with it. Autumn is one, big, bloody brawl for the right to live. Autumn is war. And in the end, of course, Death hurls ice and snow and cold wind as though gloating. Look closely at a blizzard, squint, there's a smile in there just daring anything to try to stay alive.

There's a con job happening here. Life puts up it's Autumn fight, pretends to die, retreats, and when Death drops its guard, sprouts back spreading its gorgeous green everywhere across the landscape. Or is it Death only pretending to be defeated? It too returns. Is it less a war than a dance requiring different wardrobes for different seasons? And how do we fit in?

Now enough of this heavy Zen crap!