changing leaves

I wanted to soak in the red and yellow; I wanted to come back with a sense of renewal. But autumn is not really about renewal: it is about the closing of the old.

I am growing older. I feel it in the crack of my ankles in the morning, in the number of doughnuts I can eat without feeling sick, in the amount of time I can spend behind the wheel of a car. Yet I am not old. I am not living in a nursing home or with a loved one who is becoming more and more burdoned by my existence. As America ages, we have more and more ethical questions to face: how do we age with dignity, without the interference of government or the beliefs of others, and within a time frame that we can accept? When is death appropriate?

While people my age botox, nip, tuck, suck, and implant, many other people are working to control their bladders, to find food that doesn't send their bodies into frenzies, and to keep their minds working for as long as possible. I don't mean to minimize the people my own age; I just think that maybe we worry too much about wrinkle creams. In the mean time, a person that I love dearly is dying.

She is not on her deathbed, mind you. But the inevitability of the end of life is more real to me than ever. The leaves are glowing: but they are yellow now.

This did not help my depression, of course. But I can say that my focus has shifted. I'm not so interested in myself right now. I seem unimportant. It never seemed more important to me that I stop and look around: to look outside of me.