I wrote this the second day of Warrior Monk, as I laid on the grass watching the leaves flutter thru the breeze. It feels like a poem, but I have no idea how to punctuate a poem. It doesn't matter.
The golden leaves shower down like rain, the gentle caress of the wind enticing them to leave the safety and nourishment of the tree.
But the tree is not really nourishing them anymore, which makes it easier for them to leave. To take the invitation of the wind and unabashedly proceed to the next stage of life.
The stage where they decompose and provide nourishment for another.
If only I could leave the tree so freely, with reckless abandon. Is it really reckless, or just finding a new source of nourishment?
Releasing something that no longer serves me, but instead drains the color and life out of me.
I must do this to survive.
The leaf knows what to do. Why don't I?