Day 277, October 8

Delicious autumn!
My very soul is webbed to it,
and if I were a bird,
I would fly about the earth
seeking successive autumns.
-- George Eliot

George Eliot describes autumn in words that bring the season to life as surely as the scent of wood-burning stoves and pumpkin pie. Would that I had that gift for poetry.

The phrase "my very soul is webbed to it ..." causes me to wonder why my soul is webbed to.  Is it webbed to the things of this world?  Sometimes.  Or is it webbed to eternal things?  Less frequently.

This balance between being in the world but not of it is, like all matters of balance, difficult to achieve.  At least for me.  I am mortal enough to enjoy the pleasures and joys of this world.  I am also wise enough (occasionally) to want something more, something more lasting.

This I know for sure:  whatever my soul is webbed to defines me more surely than any outward description.