When the Last Teardrop Falls

Sunday Fall

The early morning fog that wrapped the world in grey has long since rolled out or burned away. The near midday sun illumines this day with a squinty brightness, and a lone cloud floats above the few families enjoying the park before the madness of post-church Sunday afternoon. Normally I would have spent this morning in a house of worship, employing my guitar for the weekly rites. But unneeded today, I slept late and have now made my way to the one spot where collecting and writing my thoughts comes easiest.

That mapping the cosmology of the heart should be called easy is a misnomer. Probably the most difficult task I semi-regularly attempt is the unshrouding of myself. For all my efforts at real transparency, I am shut tighter than a vampire’s coffin at dawn. If one bit of light entered in, maybe my heart would turn to dust.

Veiled thoughts. Shrouded emotions. Hearts safely behind high and thick walls. Each metaphor grows both in the strength to protect, as well as to pull down. Surely life was never intended to be lived in this fashion? My heart tells me no, but seeks refuge nonetheless.

The park has grown quiet…most likely the calm before the afternoon swarm. A lone runner makes her way around the perimeter trail, the bright neon yellow of her attire visible at this distance even to these aging eyes. My lone cloud friend is breaking apart in the wind of the upper air. In the shade of my favorite tree (and who doesn’t have one?) I can see clearly the changing colors of fall, my favorite season.

It’s probably fitting that today has no music. It’s all too easy to lose myself in notes and tones, textures and rhythms. Music makes my heart sing where my voice cannot. But on this seventh day I’ll rest from rhyme and song, and wrestle with words in their stead. I’ve often said that there’s music to be found everywhere, even in prose.

The cloud has gone now…the neon runner run past to a solitary track…the moment of stillness lost, as the park begins to fill with the revelers of this bright day.

Still my heart is no less shrouded. Do I pray for Holy Spirit to rend the veil of my heart? Where are those who will march around my walls with music and shouting, awaiting the fall?

There is no end to the questions my heart would ask. But fall reminds me of the fleeting days with every leaf that falls around me. The time for questions will be over, and I will revel in the long answer of eternity when the last teardrop falls.