The drifting leaf…

The story of a human life

Have you ever seen, no, I mean really seen that brown leaf… no, the leaf with shades of beautiful brown drift down the tree drunkenly and fall gently on the ground staring up at the tree of which it was a part a short while ago? The tree, decades old, waves its branches in the air, like the arms of a coy consort, showing off her wares; the fresh green leaves sprouting as more brown ones join the ones on the ground.

The leaves, now useless, separated from the tree, are swept away, with a broom or the breeze, rolling lazily across the ground on which they lay, to be scattered into nothing. The tree goes on producing more leaves, shedding her old garments, dressing into her new finery in bight shades of green, mindless of the old clothes shorn or their fate.

Is this just the story of the drifting leaf or the story of a lifespan?

It reminds one of the story by O Henry titled “The Last Leaf”, a crisp summarised version of which I read on Wikipedia and share here with my readers:

“A woman nicknamed Johnsy (her full name is Joanna) has come down with pneumonia, and is now close to death. Outside the window of her room, the leaves fall from a vine. Johnsy decides that when the last leaf drops, she too will die, while her roommate Sue, who stays with her, tries to tell her to stop thinking so pessimistically.

“In the same apartment building, an elderly, frustrated artist named Behrman lives below Johnsy and Sue. Behrman has been claiming that he will paint a masterpiece, even though he has never even attempted to start. Sue visits Behrman, telling him that Johnsy, who is dying of pneumonia, has come to believe that she will die when the last leaf falls off of the vine outside her window. Behrman scoffs at this as foolishness, but—as he is protective of the two young artists—he decides to visit Johnsy and see the vine from her window.

“In the night, a storm comes with wind howling and rain splattering against the window. Sue closes the curtains and tells Johnsy to go to sleep, even though there is still one leaf left on the vine. Johnsy protests against having the curtains closed, but Sue insists because she does not want Johnsy to see the last leaf fall. In the morning, Johnsy wants to see the vine to be sure that all the leaves are gone, but to their surprise, there is still one leaf left.

“The leaf does not fall that day, nor does it fall overnight, nor the next day. Johnsy believes that the leaf stayed there to show how wicked she was, and that she sinned in wanting to die. She begins to live.

“When Johnsy is strong enough, Sue reveals to her that their neighbour Behrman has died of pneumonia, and that the one remaining leaf is in fact his masterpiece done for Johnsy’s sake to live.”

Life, however, is not so pretty. All of us do not have neighbours to paint a leaf for us on the tree. Instead, we ourselves are those leaves. Born to our parents, live our lives, then age. No, no one is interested in the beauty of those brown leaves, hanging limply onto the tree, not wanting to fall yet know one day they must, ignored by those who gasp over the blooming flowers of the tree that bore them too yet no one spares a glance for the ageing leaves till their time is up. They fall. No longer a sore for eyes. Old, losing color, no use to the tree, no use to anyone.

Then there are some leaves that are cruelly plucked from the tree, while talking, thinking… not realising that a full life is being destroyed. Many are plucked in the same way in the prime of their lives, cutting short the enjoyment people got from looking at their fresh green garb, their dance with the wind, waving with other leaves merrily. As they fall, they look up at their fellow leaves, wildly beseeching to be saved. Late, too late.

The drifting leaf — the story of a human life.

Who knows when it will fall to the ground? When it’s time of traipsing with the winds, motion will cease. Who knows whether it will be the leaf to drift to the ground when brown or be plucked unnaturally from its tree?

Mary Elizabeth Frye writes:

Do not stand at my grave and weep:

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft star shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry:

I am not there; I did not die.

To feel and to feel within. The beauty of that drifting leaf. It lies not where it falls, it lies not in the whisper when it makes its way to the ground. No. It lies within us, it lies in our feeling of its presence in different turns of our lives, in the whisper of the breeze that musses our hair, the quiet of early morning with not a soul stirring, in the deep silence of the night. Above all, it lies in the noise of people when we feel distanced from the maddening crowd in a silent place within ourselves, cherishing the presence of the leaf now no more. It is this sense of being that gives us strength. The strength to go on, the strength to once more traipse with the wind with fellow leaves, to enjoy the sun on our upturned faces, to feel alive.

Then comes the time to drift down… away from the tree that bore us, snatched away from the fellow leaves we spent time with for a fresh leaf to take our place.

The drifting leaf — the story of a human life.