by Donna Poole
“Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.”—Stanley Horowitz
Little did the poet guess when he penned those words for a 1983 edition of the Reader’s Digest how many thousands of photographers, painters, and writers he would inspire. Though many may not recognize his name, searches for Horowitz’s poem skyrocket on the internet each fall. The most current statistics I could find were from the New York Public Library in 2011: “A search of his name and the first line of the poem retrieved around 1,630,000 results.”
I can see why those lines are so loved, can’t you? The metaphor is gripping and beautiful and makes us think of the mosaic of our own lives. The artists among us do that; they grab us by the collar as we rush by, oblivious, and they whisper to us, “See.”
What do you see when you look back over the mosaic of your life? Memories grow hazy along the way and are colored by our personalities too; what we see depends on whether we look back with bitterness or a benediction.
I can’t remember all the names and faces of the people who’ve walked a mile or two with me on my backroads, but I know that they each have left a piece of themselves that is now the pattern of me. Time has smoothed many jagged pieces of glass in my mosaic, so they no longer hurt as they once did. Light shines brighter from behind some pieces reminding me of people and of why I loved them.
I bend down and run my fingers over the bright colors and smile at the memories forever preserved of our four children as babies, toddlers, teens, and young adults. I see their weddings. Among the brightest flashes of color in my mosaic are our thirteen grandchildren who refuse to stop moving, even in this still life art memory.
When I look back at the pieces in my mosaic, I remember smiles that warmed my heart, encouraging words spoken when I was exhausted from the long walk, and laughter that wove its beautiful wave of color around the darker times. I see so many prayers. I recall a line in a book here, a quote from a teacher there, a hug from a friend. Woven among all the years, laughter, and tears, I find God’s Word, because more than anything it has enriched my life.
I look ahead and wonder what colors will still add to my mosaic before the design is complete.
We add something to every life we touch. Is a look of kindness, a word of encouragement, a hug to dispel the fog of indifference too much to give? I want to give more and more as we walk each other Home. The tiny piece I add to the mosaic of someone’s life may glow for them far after I am gone.
It has been a beautiful autumn here in Michigan. I agree that “Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.”—Stanley Horowitz
