Our Fallen Leaf Brethren.

Photos in this post not taken from the internet... for once :)

If one glances at the sidewalk in Berkeley, particularly up in North Berkeley, or in more residential areas, one would notice spectacular leaf stains decorating the concrete. Definitely reminiscent of by-gone days of leaf imprinting in elementary school, or perhaps a high school biology class, the stains impart a delicate glory that seems to appear just for the end of winter. They could be present all of the time, and I just haven't noticed them before, but they are especially distinct recently. Maybe it's because I've been walking rather than biking. Hence, I've had many more opportunities to stare blankly at my feet as I trudge to class and my sight has traveled to the many shadows that the leaves have traced along the path.

They are delicately beautiful, these stains. The mementos of autumn and winter. In memoriam: the leaves of the past, left to reside forever (figuratively speaking) upon the cold concrete.
How appreciable they truly are. They remind us, remind me at least, that there is beauty in the world. In this school that can often serve as a prison, there is a God. In this community whose social hierarchy obscures what we ought to truly care for, there is a hope. In this world, in which mothers are diagnosed with tumors of the stomach, fathers die of brain cancer, children are forced to wield automatic weapons, and human beings collapse from malnutrition, there is a promise of heaven and forgiveness.

There is one house on a corner near my apartment that I absolutely relish passing. While I will usually hang my head while walking, I'll always lift my eyes once I reach the sidewalk juxtaposed against this house. If anything, it forces me to look up. The building itself has nothing special about it. Moreover, the avenue is overtaken by the house's greenery-- large, fanning leaves, voluptuous flowers, branches that extend outward to reach for any oncoming passerby, and blades of bright green grass that tickle the legs of those who dare to cross their path. It's like an Eden amongst the maze of houses, classrooms, apartments, labs, and lecture halls that Berkeley has to offer. Don't get me wrong, Berkeley is a beautiful place, but this tiny area in particular never fails to lift my spirits. I take a few steps and I'm suddenly in the rain forests of the Amazon, or maybe the Indian forests, like in Jungle Book. It's my little escape, if only for a few fleeting moments. The summer time brings out the best in this little arena. It brightens the greens and, if I look up through the widest leaves, I can trace the plant veins that are illuminated by brilliant sunlight.
But how can nature, how can God, give us peace when He often destroys the people we love, or is writing the end of earth's history? Nature gives life, God gives life, and both bring death. They go hand-in-hand, because God is nature. A gorgeous view of, say, a mountainous scene turned brilliantly gold by a sunrise encompasses God's glory. Likewise, could destruction be seen as God-given as well? He can give and he can take away. A friend of mine once noted, and I completely agree, that the terrible things that happen are God's way of reminding us that there is good in the world. A loved one dies, and a family comes together in such a way that they are nearly unstoppable.  It's like those images that sometimes surface, with the "We shall overcome" quote, of a tree sapling rising from the ashes. The leaf stains, too, are God's reminder. Yes, the shadows of the past do exist, and the memories of our losses remain, but if we happen to glance upward a bevy of dazzling, green leaves is there to greet us.