Although the hydrangeas arranged in a flowery gesture of an ill-timed attempt have long since wilted into the dirt driveway, the memory of them shouting their immature message are steadfast. Heartfelt hope sprouts anew in the knowledge that the wilting is still just part of the cycle and, when the time is right, there will be no question of them catching full bloom once again. It may have to wait another couple of seasons, but the beauty of truth in life's cyclical growth are worth the wait.
Truth may be relative to some. As a ripened human, it seems compulsory; particularly where the undeniable truths of nature are concerned. It is the place of openness where, imperfections included, the line between immature, perfect, and rotten all collide. I can't help but see the beauty that comes with aging and growing to perfection, including each step along the way. A fine wine must maintain a proper balance of environmental factors in order to ripen to its best version of itself. Were my taste buds, however, let to feel the dance of a young Rothschild or Opus One, would it not still be delicious?
Like the golden chanterelles poking up beneath last year's dying leaves after a humid summer day's shower, growth and decomposition become synonymous. As the summer turns to Fall, the brown hedgehogs, black trumpets, gray maitake, and matsutake all in turn replace the orange and yellows of the midsummer sun's creation. But these find their most perfect moments well after all but the kale, onions and squash crops are in.
Like a blue cheese that becomes more ugly as its pungent nuttiness ripens in a widening vein of mold, I may grow past my most physically beautiful only to become the most delectable version of myself in the Autumn of my years. After all, a banana that hasn't yet become tender enough to bruise has a chalky, flavorless way about it. Not until it has earned the age of bruising can it learn to provide its most knowledgable sugar content.
