The Dot

  There it was again.   It happens every year, usually in July.  Summer was resplendent in her party dress, the sunbeams crept through the forest with misty greetings, and an achingly beautiful scent wafted through the dewy leaves this morning.  Yet, at the height of power of this kingdom, suddenly, when all was fair and green and growing...a breeze, almost imperceptible, a breath of cool, of change, the black dot of Chaos in the white Yang symbol.  Summer took a nap, had a weird dream, and waking, brushed it off...almost.  “This will all end.  Winter is coming.”  The music of the birds blasted over the dance floor, and a blue sky was nearly able to smile away such notions, but...the Dot is always there.  

  Perhaps this realization makes Summer’s perfume all the more poignant, propelling her stilettos over the dance floor late into the sleepless nights.  Without limitation, this Eden would degenerate into a disposable, meaningless ease.  Free refills lose their charm after the fifth time.  

  I was hanging out with some senior citizens recently.  We had just finished bingo, and got to talking.  “Would you want to live forever?”   

“Absolutely not!” was the emphatic reply.  Interestingly, nobody said “well, maybe for another thirty years.”  

  I think they’ve got a better grasp of seasons than I do.