A leaf made it to the sixth floor of my office building today, no doubt brought in on the heel of someone's shoe. It lay there on the carpet most of the afternoon, a bright-red maple reminder of Autumn's arrival.
I marvel, not only at its humble beauty but also at its fortitude. Blown to a wet sidewalk from who-knows-where, attached to a sole for a walk to and then inside the building, a six-floor ride up the elevator and another walk down a long, carpeted hallway, to be deposited there for us to see.
The wall color is "Feather Gold Dust" or some such rot and we hang large posters and big framed art to break its monotony. Why, then, does this three-inch wonder command such attention, disrupt our focus and draw us back to view it again?
It isn't just the boldness of its color or the uniqueness of its hue. Nor is it the cut-out shape that only a maple can deliver.
No, it is because it is something "outside" that has made it in.
Something that surprises us by not belonging here. Something otherworldly that defies by its presence.
Up against an acre of industrial hallway and walls, this little red maple leaf draws us to itself. "Come closer;" it seems to say, "see me; remember that today is not like yesterday, that inside it is still, and that outside, things remain in motion."
