transit

Transition is the beauty of life. I've been mulling it over, and I am convinced that this is the crux of what is beautiful. Spring and autumn trump summer and winter-- what can compare to the effusive bursting of buds on a cherry tree, or the smell of fallen, sun-warmed leaves in autumn? I thought of so many examples that my head started to fill up, but of course they've all slipped away now.

I think what prompted this line of thought was joy in the actual act of traveling while I was in Costa Rica-- the hours in minivans over rutted mountain roads, sparkling ferry trips through red tide-infested waters, walking through the jungle to get to waterfalls.

Falling in love is a huge transition. The giddiness, the mood swings, the vivid visual imaginings. This week I'm in love again, and it's amazing how fresh the emotion feels, viewing it a bit detatched, with a wary eye. Of course, my new love is Kenard the kitten, so there's no chance of heartbreak. The rush is the same. I sit at my desk in the afternoon and stare out the window, dreaming of his wiggly belly. I long to put my arms around him, to just spend time with him, to hear his voice.

Admitting all that is turning my post towards silliness, but I insist upon the seriousness of the revelation-- transition is beauty. The good news is that the adage "the only constant in life is change" is true.