A pair of plump, skinny-legged women, late middle-aged and top heavy, balance in the belly-high seawater, yards from shore. Each holds raised in their right hands a beer can, and in their lefts, a cigarette. They are offset mirrors of one another, their cheeks abused by the sun, and they stare glumly at the beach. The sand-clouded, yellow-green waters washing around their expansions and crevices, their tumescent and skirted one-piece bathing suits, have surged and sucked and trembled and roared for millennia and are just as likely to do so for millennia hereafter. The indifference of the sea is pure. Few places preach the passing of time like the beach. Few things taunt us with death like the ceaseless pummel of waves upon our eroding shore.
Look at your world. Anticipation hangs round the trunks and low branches of hillside trees. Behind the laboratory, up on the steep slope, which spends its day much in shade now, fall has come. Everyone always guesses at the reason–some say shorter days; others say cooler weather; still others say moisture. Whatever the cause, it begins gradually in mid-August with a shy, suggestive fading of the green, which few seem to notice; then it waits; time must pass–elusive, insomniac time, falling away at the moment we would seize it.
Then on a traffic-addled September morning, one on which time has willfully mobilized against you, bringing tardiness, despite your efforts, and its attendant threat of reprimand, a spray of red pierces the leaf curtain at your left, followed by scattered assertions of pale yellow. A drowsing, purpling vine sways affably from an oak. And for a moment already passed, time was almost a thing to be grasped.
Finding beauty in death–an autonomous grace suffusing the expiration that we face; movement being the thing–temporal movement, i.e. time, not physical–for death also comes to much that is still. Take trees, for example.
The morning light strikes many leaves but leaves yet many in shade. And the beauty seems buried somehow in the contrast, mystically–how a leaf has two sides: light and dark, silver and green, matte and glossy, lamentation and praise–each side equally beautiful. And this splendor in the trees is spread at the margins of every vista–a free, daily gift.
Lines of trees are the seams of the visible quotient of our lives–they hem in our narrative. Only a fool misses the significance of trees.