When Yellow Leaves, or None, or Few, Do Hang

Have I mentioned before that I hate fall? I know everyone thinks the leaves are beautiful with their changing colors, but to me autumn is just prelude to death/winter. Apparently I'm not the only one to think so. Of all Shakespeare's sonnets, #73 (from which my title line is taken) speaks to me the most. He draws the same analogy, obviously more eloquently than I ever could. This fall, though, I'm feeling the sense of swiftly passing time in a different way than I have before, no doubt due to the loss this year of two very significant people in my life. I promise not to get maudlin here; at least fall in Florida doesn't bring the stark images of death and dying that the mid-Atlantic falls of my younger life did. Fall is perhaps the nicest time of year here, with moderate temperatures and (usually) lots of sunshine. Still, there's no denying that winter is coming.

When I think about my mom at the end of her life, in the six months leading to her death, I remember how frustrated I was with her when she wouldn't try to do anything to make herself better. And it wasn't only in those six months. She was on a downward trend for years leading up to that; she knew it, and didn't do anything to change it. Of course, I had no control over what she did, and while her doctor encouraged me to prod her into compliance once she was in the nursing home, nothing I said or did made any difference. I don't know if she was just finished with living, or if change took more effort than she cared to exert.

Contrast that with my friend who died suddenly last month, who embraced life and seemed to be packing in as much living as he possibly could. He was so happy and content, able to do what he wanted when he wanted to do it -- and he did so much. I'm pretty sure that had he been offered the choice, he would have rather lived a shorter life on his own terms than live another twenty years "playing it safe". In a way, I guess he did make that choice, although probably not directly. And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe if he had know when he went for his morning motorcycle ride that he would die that day, he would have stayed home.

Considering these two very different scenarios, I have tried to find some meaning in it. I know that we can't understand everything, why bad -- or even good -- things happen. But if I can take anything away from it, it's that I want to really live, not simply exist. Many of the decisions I'm making in my life are focused around that central concept. And just in case you're not familiar with the sonnet I mentioned, I'm typing it below for your contemplation and edification. (I used to know it by heart, but now I'm looking at it in my 1600+ page, tiny-print undergrad textbook -- glasses on.)

#23

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang,
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset faded in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest,
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
    This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
    To love that well which thou must leave ere long.