Rhapsody in Green

An Essay By Aisling // 7/21/2006

Here’s something random that jumped out of me the night before last, as I was sitting idly in the dining room, in front of my sister’s laptop, looking out the French doors and watching the day die… I figured it could be my July contribution. And for August, I’m going to have something revolutionary. See, the story goes…*deep breath*…my sisters and I won scholarships to participate in the Irish week at the summer music camp at the Augusta Heritage Center in West Virginia. So I’m going to write something little every day, about my experiences, and type it all up when we get home. Until then…

Rhapsody in Green

The grass is green. The trees are green. Almost greener. With a depth all their own. The whole world bespeaks life and liveliness, richness and glory. But the dusk is creeping over the green earth, taking possession of its greatness, its greenness, its life. Slowly, subtly, secretly even…turning it grey.

Below, the trees hem in the world that is my backyard. Hugging the space close. Keeping it warm, for as long as they can. The lightning bugs are gems floating lazily in the growing dark. Bobbing. Bowing. Slipping away. Elusive. Free. Unconcerned. Strange, against the familiarity, the monotony of green. Strange. But somehow more natural than anything. Like stars in the dark. Their spontaneous brightness playing a pattern of wonder and wildness in the pool of cool green-turning-grey.

Above, the wide-open whiteness, the depth, the coolness of the sky. And behind its darkening white lie the echoes of those brilliant balls of light, waiting to be illumined. Waiting to stand out against their night, playing a pattern of wonder and wildness upon her depths.

And the darkness ever deepens. Darker. Denser. The forest is slowly, surely fading into a blanket of the deepest discernible green. As deep as it can be before it must be black. Slowly the shapes of the trees are melted together, forming a rough backdrop, a tender measure of depth and dignity. Slowly yard is becoming more and more island, an island of green-turning-grey, hemmed in by a darkling sea.

More and more intensely, the leaves draw their silhouettes against the sky. The sky that is slowly falling into sleep. Slowly surrendering. Slowly giving in to the night. It’s a sad thing, almost. The dying of a day. A quiet, routine sadness. Like a tear that moves slowly to your eyes, slowly down your face, slowly away. And leaves your heart quiet but refreshed. I sit here, helpless to stop it, to sway it, to stir it in anyway. Al lI can do is watch. Watch as the day slips between my fingers and the dusk sweeps in, and the night after it, close on its heels.

The tips of the leaves cling longingly, lingeringly, to their beloved light. Loathe to say goodbye. I think the leaves understand. They understand what we, who are weighted with much longer lives, are too busy to know. There’s something darling in every moment. Something precious in every breath of wind, every drifting scent, every warming sunbeam, every blade of grass, every petal on every flower. Ever y last blush of color in the dying sky. And when the day fades into silence, the leaves breathe deep of the still solemnity of night. And the know that there’s something in the depth of the darkness, something in the chill of the air, something in the smile of the stars, something in the moon’s pale simplicity, that is echoing the beauty of the day that has gone. That is, in itself, every bit as beautiful.

And when the morrow comes, and in its turn slips away, away into the void that holds all the days that ever were in all their full glory of brave and blessed beauty…when the time that is tomorrow has become the past, the leaves will remember. And if we stop to listen, if we step outside our muffling walls, and breathe deep of the silent stillness…we will hear them whispering the echoes of yesterday’s song. And it won't be a rhapsody in grey...but in green.