I have always loved the sentiment of nineteenth-century naturalist and essayist John Burroughs:

 How beautifully leaves grow old.

How full of light and color are their last days. 

 Last days. We suffered two deaths in my husband’s family last week: his father on Tuesday, his mother on Friday. They divorced decades ago and were living on opposite coasts, which made the timing even more surreal. As we navigated through that experience, my mind naturally moved to last days. They now know theirs.

Mine are still coming.

So are yours.

I might be traversing my last days right now. So might you. For most of us, those last days sneak silently up, catching us unawares. Even if we have some idea of their approach, the exact day and time evade us until that time arrives with its silent finality. To read more, click the button below.

That leads me to two important questions loaned to me by John Burroughs: Am I growing old beautifully? Are my last days full of light and color? And a third: Do I impart that light and color to the people around me?

Autumn has always been my favorite season. Few things fill me with as much unmeasured wonder as when the Master Creator splashes everything around me with a palette of breathtaking hues. Blessed to live at the feet of some of the most magnificent mountains in the nation, I have taken more drives than I could ever count into those canyons to marvel at the spectacle of it all.

As I consider the beauty of those leaves, I remember one of my mother’s best friends who, finding herself alone in her last days, set about collecting fabric of every color and pattern everywhere she could. She purchased some of it; some was donated. She repurposed old articles of clothing and bedding. And then she fashioned all of it into quilts—quilts of all sizes that she gave to the homeless, the downtrodden, the unfortunate, the poor. Each recipient was wrapped in her love—a love she freely shared with many whose faces she never saw. One day while shopping, she stood in line behind a young mother whose baby was wrapped in one of her quilts. Do I emanate that kind of light and color?

I am reminded too of the elderly woman who lived two doors down from my house. She often invited me to come and share dinner with her and her husband—always a tablecloth, pretty dishes, and fascinating conversation, topped off with a cookie and a bowl of ice cream, even on ordinary old weekdays. The thing that impressed me the most about her was her devotion to writing letters—beautifully handwritten letters on creamy stationery, dispatched to all kinds of people in her life, expressing hope and faith in each. Giving each the gift that she believed in him or her. Imparting to each a piece of her considerable wisdom wrapped in love every bit as warm as a hand-stitched quilt. She spread light and color to so many. Do I do the same?

I can do better. I can make sure that my last days—starting today, for that matter—consist of growing old beautifully, spreading light and color to those around me. We all can. Because, like the leaves of autumn, we can all die with a staggering splash of beauty and the promise of another season.