Saturday, October 2, 2010

BUTTER LEAVES OF LETCHWORTH


October. The leaves on the great Maple trees were so yellow, they looked like sticks of butter. Yellow and bright, they were everywhere I looked, behind me and before me, for miles and miles and miles, interspersed between the Birch and Pine trees.

I was standing at the bottom of the gorge, a much-traveled trail of many before us, and most likely many to follow. Boundless untamed waterfalls behind and the sun shining brightly above, it was an October Indian Summer the likes of which I've not seen before, and would be very blessed indeed should  I ever see again. My face would be sunburned before the day was over.

In the spring the Maple leaves were green like all the others, blending in with the landscape and not very special looking at first glance, wallflowers at the dance of the more popular Ash and Black Walnut. Come the end of summer, however, they began their transformation from plain green to brilliant red. You could tell this was the beginning of something special, as if the other trees themselves stood back to watch the emergence of pure beauty, somewhat envious and intimidated at the same time.

Perhaps the greatest surprise to them all, though, was the ultimate blast of pigmentation, the final burst of yellow. The ugly duckling was truly the belle of the ball.

The trails walked were winding and turning, up and down, over many miles of buried tree roots and smooth rock formations. The moss was overgrown on the north side of the boulders, and the rock slates beckoned to sit and visit for a while, to  sit and listen to the wind and perhaps learn the innermost secrets of souls.

I had many prayers of thanks that day. Thankful to live in a country where the park was a gift of love donation from a wealthy man, a present to the community after his death. Thankful to be able to walk the many slate steps down to the gorge under my own power unassisted. To be able to breathe deep the smells of the wildflowers, see the colorful foliage surrounding me everywhere. 

 How I wished my children could have shared in the moment with me, but mindful that this sight was meant for just me.


They will forever be the Butter Leaves of Letchworth, the announcement of Autumn, a wonderful reminder of the fullness of life, the reward for surviving a Winter bleak and dark, and holding fast to the promise of beauty yet to come. My faith was rewarded and I was alive to receive a blessing. I will never again take anything for granted, for each day is a gift, each person a present from above.

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