- the act of cutting off; sudden termination.
- Botany. the normal separation of flowers, fruit, and leaves from plants.
From a place deep within itself, the autumn tree bursts forth in glorious color, and shows a different face of its beauty. Colors emerge like hidden jewels, sparkling in the sun. The season is turning, and once again I contemplate the language of the Tree Maker speaking through the deciduous tree.
For months they are magnificent lush and green, but as temperatures cool, leaves transform, change colors, and strike us with emanating, glowing hues. We have to catch the show at the right time. The window is short. A week too late, and the leaves could be gone, fallen to the ground in a dusty heap.
Why do leaves change color in a glorious display for only a short time, only to fall to the ground, dead?
Why do trees lose their magnificent crown, drop their jewels, shed their shimmering coats, just before the onslaught of bitter, brutal cold, winter winds, and ice and snow? Why at that moment of time?
The Tree Maker
Surrender. Did you notice that glory shines brightest before Tree dies during autumn? It shines then gives up a part of its treasure – its leaves– and only a spindly skeleton remains for the long winter season. The autumn leaves that glow, and then die, exemplify the beauty of letting go. Its branches are always lifted upward like arms in praise. With a dark, cold season approaching, my Tree surrenders bravely as it is stripped of its glorious coat of color and stands bare naked in the coldest months of the year.
Finding Rest. In the whirlwind of life the tree is firmly planted. It may sway in the wind, but it won’t come out of the ground. Its roots are firmly established. The peace, the place of rest, amidst seasons, the bitter winter, and the whirlwind of life, is found in Me: “Return to your rest, O my soul, For the Lord has dealt bountifully with you.” Psalm 116:7. The leaves return to their place of rest.
Deeper Roots. Abiding with Me makes for deeper roots. Surviving the winter is part of the process. Surviving in the environment where they are planted is also part of the process. During one season they bear fruit, in another season, the seeds fall and lie dormant in the ground, but the seeds do not die in the winter. I am cultivating life, even in darkness, even in the long winters of your life.
Finding Rest. The trees of autumn appear to me like aging trees, and through their changing colors, they show off their wisdom and knowledge, as if these are crowning acts of their lives. But then their glory dies all too soon, and their colors fade and their leaves drop dead to the ground. Then the snow falls upon the bare tree.
As in: trees laughing leaves, floating in the wind.
I catch a handful of laughter, toss it back in the air.
As in: the hidden beauty in growing old, in death, revealed and witnessed through vibrant colors of burnt orange, flaming scarlet, deep gold.
I see the lines of mirth and hues of grace in an aging autumn. I, too, am another year older, passing through another autumn, an unknown number of autumns remaining.
As in: the beauty of letting go, surrender, the tree succumbing to the cold of winter without its luscious wrap of leaves.
The tree, another year older, yields to the process of time and change. I, too, have seasons of hard times, removal, loss, and renewal.
As in: watching youthful green disappear as quickly as it came.
I soon will see the tree, standing in the middle of winter like a stark, bare skeleton with spindly limbs. Only its leaves will have died; the tree remains alive and breathing, waiting for its time to bloom again.
Hidden jewels exist behind the coat; “great and unsearchable things”, words of life and wisdom and the peace of His presence, that the Coat-Remover Himself reveals after the false wrappings of this life are taken away.
- growing old; aging.
- Cell Biology. (of a cell) no longer capable of dividing but still alive and metabolically active.
*definitions from dictionary.com
Prasanta Verma is a member of The Contemplative Writer team. She’s a writer, poet, and artist. Born under an Asian sun, raised in the Appalachian foothills, Prasanta currently lives in the Midwest, is a mom of three, and also coaches high school debate. You can find her on Twitter @ pathoftreasure, Instagram prasanta_v_writer, and at her website: https://pathoftreasure.wordpress.com/.