“There is no such thing as death.  In nature nothing dies.  From each sad remnant of decay, some forms of life arise, so shall his life be taken away before he knoweth that he hath it.”

– Charles Mackay

As I walked home from the woods last week, scanning the forest floor beneath my feet, I spied a small speck of green in the midst of all the brown of Fall.

There, right in the middle of the decaying plants and leaves of last year, a seed had fallen.  Nourished by the ones who had gone before him, he now sent two green leaves up through the soil and toward the sky above.  Nestled in and surrounded by a rotting log and a piece of stone, he stood as a tribute to his ancestors whose death had given him life.

The next day I drove out through a small town on my way to the country store.  As I passed the tiny funeral home, my thoughts returned to a winter day thirty-two years ago.  Eight inches of snow had fallen the night before.  Ordinarily, I would have stayed at home and avoided the treacherous roads, but this was no ordinary day.  Three days earlier, on my 29th birthday, my dear great-aunt Essie had died; and I had a promise to keep.  Essie and I had been quite close during my childhood.  She was a member of our household, disabled by a heart condition; but that never kept her from living out loud.  I always think of her in the Fall, because her wisdom dropped so many colorful leaves at my feet through the years, encouraging my tiny seeds of awareness to take root.  She talked to me often about death, telling the stories of the endings of her parents and then her brother — stories written in a time when death was an intimate event and people were often laid out at home.  She assured me that she was looking forward to a beautiful transition.  After all, her own brother’s last words were, “Oh!  How beautiful!”

“So, don’t cry at my funeral,” she told me when I was eleven.  ”Promise me that you’ll sing instead.”  I promised as I fought back the forbidden tears and convinced my child’s mind that she would live forever.  Now the day had come to keep my promise.  Only my parents and I were able to make the trip to the funeral home that day.  The rest of the family lived at a distance, and traveling in the winter storm would have been dangerous.  I imagine my parents were a bit surprised when I showed up with my guitar in hand; but I knew what I had promised, and now I would deliver.  Prayers were said, words of remembrance were spoken, and then the time had come.  I tuned up my strings and began to sing “In The Garden.” I’m no Mahalia Jackson, but I’m sure the sound of love in my voice reached Essie’s ear and made her smile.

The last of her leaves fell that year; and among them, a seed planted eighteen years earlier took root.  Something new grew in me that day — something strong and fearless and proud.  It told me to stand tall, just as Essie had — ironic since she was under five feet tall.  Nobody could have known that a year later it would be this strength that would allow me to guide my own children through the loss of their brother.  Nothing really dies.  The pieces of us that fall to the earth enrich it, and the seeds we offer to others take root when the time is right.  I think that is why I love Autumn.