"Come said the wind to
the leaves one day,
Come o're the meadows
and we will play.
Put on your dresses
scarlet and gold,
For summer is gone
and the days grow cold."
- A Children's Song of the 1880's
And from the windy meadow where the scarlet and gold of the leaves are a twirling kaleidoscope I speak of the tenderness of these warm autumn days that lead us gently into the morose and melancholy month of November.
The wind blew wildly last evening, and my expectation was a valley denuded of all the vivid golds, the ambers and the rich reds of nature's funeral clothes. Sometime in the night it became calm, and here, - another day of tender and heart breaking beauty.
I love the feelings that the word evokes, - 'tenderness'. Passion is a whirlwind, but tenderness, I have read, is passion in repose. It speaks of comfort, enduring love, kindness and compassion.
'What seems to grow fairer to me as life goes by is the love and the grace and tenderness of it; not its wit and cleverness and grandeur of knowledge - grand as knowledge is - but just the laughter of children, and the friendship of friends, and the cozy talk by the fire, and sight of flowers, and the sound of music.' (Unknown)
Somehow, at this time of my life, I have an ever growing affinity with autumn. And with tenderness, - the quiet love for all that is beautiful in my life, and as well for many things that may not be beautiful, but still are dear to our hearts and a part of our lives.
When death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.
George Eliot (1819 - 1880)
That old Great Reconciler has been hovering around, probably enjoying the loveliness that we breathe in, but still about his business. Five funerals and memorial services within the span of six days, which, I guess, is inclined to turn one's thoughts to our eventual and inevitable mortality....
Ah, but in the meantime, ain't life wonderful !! And tender........