entertainmentordist

10/12/98

08:47 am

Entertainment or Distraction? -Morgan Young

As I look out my window, the opaque wall of trees has donned it's chameleon act. No longer the deep lush green of summer, amber, rust and chocolate have forced their way onto the canvas. It's like the early seventiesnow the TV screen has "color." If you didn't know better, you'd swear this is all just now coming to lifethe genesis of metamorphosis. But, we know otherwise. This is simply the finale. The last act of a play that began after the last frostwhen the year was newer. This is my favoriteand least favorite act. I love the explosion like an orchestrated spilling of watercolorsa view that changes each daybrightermore vividbold.and thensofterlike a moist brush begins to soften the huesslowly.washing them outsomehow even the most robust crimson becomes the color of stagnant mud. And finally, the trees shed their costumes altogether, leaving their lanky trunks bare. Their ruddy bark the only armor for the long winter. And there is my least favorite part. It's over. The production will sit idle until next year's summerstock reconvenes.

As I look closer, I see a small fir, hidden by seamlessly blending into the green of the wall of trees in it's background.It's so small, I missed it at first look. A little three foot fir. Dwarfed by it's mature cousins across the streettiny, really. It had no "show" this yearor next yearor the year after, for that matter. Maybe I missed it because it wasn't spectacular enough. Its presence didn't command my gaze. It's green. Just green. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Green. Through the heaviest frost of Februarythe wettest deluge of April, the most oppressive heat of Augustgreen. Like Christ standing out in our rolling lawnhere for us in the heaviest weather of our livesnever waveringalways herealways faithful. Yet, we are often taken by other, "more colorful" more spectacular distractions I have to stopto peerto find Christ.



	10/12/98 08:47 am Entertainment or Distraction? -Morgan Young As I look out my window, the opaque wall of trees has donned it's chameleon act. No longer the deep lush green of summer, amber, rust and chocolate have forced their way onto the canvas. It's like the early seventiesnow the TV screen has "color." If you didn't know better, you'd swear this is all just now coming to lifethe genesis of metamorphosis. But, we know otherwise. This is simply the finale. The last act of a play that began after the last frostwhen the year was newer. This is my favoriteand least favorite act. I love the explosion like an orchestrated spilling of watercolorsa view that changes each daybrightermore vividbold.and thensofterlike a moist brush begins to soften the huesslowly.washing them outsomehow even the most robust crimson becomes the color of stagnant mud. And finally, the trees shed their costumes altogether, leaving their lanky trunks bare. Their ruddy bark the only armor for the long winter. And there is my least favorite part. It's over. The production will sit idle until next year's summerstock reconvenes. As I look closer, I see a small fir, hidden by seamlessly blending into the green of the wall of trees in it's background.It's so small, I missed it at first look. A little three foot fir. Dwarfed by it's mature cousins across the streettiny, really. It had no "show" this yearor next yearor the year after, for that matter. Maybe I missed it because it wasn't spectacular enough. Its presence didn't command my gaze. It's green. Just green. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Green. Through the heaviest frost of Februarythe wettest deluge of April, the most oppressive heat of Augustgreen. Like Christ standing out in our rolling lawnhere for us in the heaviest weather of our livesnever waveringalways herealways faithful. Yet, we are often taken by other, "more colorful" more spectacular distractions I have to stopto peerto find Christ.