The dark gravel turns and crunches loudly, skidding under my feet and disturbing the airy silence of the afternoon. The sun, now white and somber, gently tickles the back of my neck and jawline from behind its glaring veil, and the familiar warmth dissipates and glides away on the fleeting winds of the seasons. The early afternoon clouds are pulled back like wrinkled bedsheets, exposing only a fraction of the glaring expanse to my contemplating eye. Suddenly, it is quiet once again. My footsteps curve to fit the familiar firmness of concrete just as I round the corner. I leave behind the red brick wall on my right, now evidenced only by the ephemeral image of grid lines imprinted in my peripheral vision. Once more, the near-frigid comfort afforded by the cloud-glazed sun reaches out in a feeble attempt to challenge the chilling gusts. Although the wintry weather remains still tangible, the sun's hard-pressed efforts manage to hold the chill to a slight, breathy sensation.
Finally, my wistful gaze drifts back to those objects, both natural and contrived, that occupy my immediate vicinity. The colorful mosaic of houses before me drapes itself across the foothills of the Rockies, blending with the reds and yellows of autumn and eventually disappearing altogether as towering peaks ascend over the conquered plains. On my right, a gray and weather-battered fence crawls pitifully by without a trace of the rich life it once possessed, its stark deadness hidden only by the occasional young tree almost as bare as the stained fence boards themselves. A weed-cluttered lot across the paved street lingers on my left, displaying the most unhealthy shades of green and dirt brown. Here, erosion has worn away deep gouges and exposed swaths of bone-dry grit that sweep up in an eye-searing haze with the smallest touch of wind. Here also, the cold sunlight only reaffirms the lifelessness that completely surrounds me. Far ahead and above, the milky clouds flow from purest white to the swirling, opaque gray that is darker than the most foreboding black. Murky and chilling, this ominous mass completely engulfs the highest mountains and nearly obscures a frightening majority of the sky. A sensation of utter dread sinks within me and seems to settle in my feet. I can hardly manage to lift my feet as my optimism quickly succumbs the leaden oppression of the change of seasons.
Even something as constant as the cyclical change from summer to winter and back again brings out the utter discontent in my life. While the warm weather of summer prevails, I crave the cool refreshment brought on by the change of seasons, but as the coming of fall - and then winter - grants me this wish, my fickle desires reverse themselves, rendering me a cyclical pessimist. Gratitude plays a huge role in how we, as human beings, relate to others and God, but we constantly convince ourselves that we deserve better or that we have not been blessed with enough. In reality, God seeks to bless us with the joy that comes through a healthy relationship with him and the realization that He has provided the beautiful environment in which we live. This revelation will only become evident if we are truly thankful for every circumstance we are presented with. When circumstances seem like they are quickly falling from summer to winter, giving thanks is the only way to start looking up, even if you are staring at a winter storm.
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