Prehistoric Angels

With all of the nuances of a nonevent, the seasons slowly change.  Tiny transformations barely noticeable. Overlapping. Inconspicuous.  Initially subtle.  I watched as pelican after pelican soared gracefully past my window, today.  Some in large flocks, creating linear shapes against the backdrop of the sky.  Others, singularly making their way along along the warm autumn air currents, wings spread as if their spans might reach from cloud to cloud.  Prehistoric looking angels heading south towards Mexico paying their last respects to the Southern California coast.  Another summer spent.  Another fall burning its way into a late California heat spell.  Another year into the autumn of my journey.

There is something about observing the way in which nature denotes the transformations of one season into another.  Intuitive.  Profound.  Exquisitely complex.  Internal clocks shifting until there is a new balance found.  From where we have been to where we are going.  A time to move from one place to another and then another.

And all along the way, we spend some time in each season.  Hopefully nurturing the present while anticipating the future and building upon the past.  Each season coming and going like a checkpoint along the journey of our life.  There is a flow to all of it.  A quintessential rhythm rounding out the seasons.  Winter.  Spring.  Summer.  Fall.  Winter.  Spring.  Summer.  Fall.

And just as the Pelicans make their way back down south each autumn, following the fibrous evanescent thread of instinct, we also journey our way through the sequential seasons of our lives.  Making our way through the translucent veil which segues the very subtle transformation of one season into another, into another.  Gossamer.  Gauzy.  Ethereal.  Our spirits open wide like the wings of a pelican making its way back to home.  Carrying all that has been, all that is, and all that will be.

Happy Autumn...