The end of a rainbow always seems to exist just beyond your periphery. So, without logic you end up chasing down the spot where you believe the end to exist. Unfortunately that magical spot ends up dissipating into thin air just as you excitedly arrive at rainbow’s end. It leaves you wondering whether that metaphorical pot really exists or not. As I child I wandered for miles in search of the end of the rainbow and was always disappointed when it teasingly re-appeared just beyond where I thought it would be; a metaphor for what happens in life.
Sometimes life is like that, what we envision in our minds and what actually exists in reality are two different things. Like an illusion, realilty shatters what we have formulated in our minds, starkly juxtaposed against the truth. This can lead to all kinds of disappointment, but ultimately brings wisdom if we are able to judge reality and illusion effectively. Personal growth occurs as a result of our ability to see life in all its reality.
There is a beautiful view from each window of my new apartment. When I look outside my window on the 15th floor I see a park that has trees in it that stretches as far as the eye can see. There are majestic oak, spruce, and evergreen trees that are changing colour. They present a riot of orange, yellow, brown and red colours that can be seen for miles away. But I cannot reach out and touch these leaves and so I rely on my perception of sight and my previous knowledge of what autumn leaves look like to guide my judgement. But that is all it is, a judgement. Therefore I make a decision based on my senses, but never lose track of the illusion that also exists.
The illusion that perhaps the leaves have fallen under the hue of a rainbow that has magically enhanced the intensity of colour that I can only see from a distance. I keep this illusion close to my heart and temper my judgement so that I can day dream, about beauty and elegance and the poetry of falling leaves in autumn. It keeps me from the harsh reality of a future that seems at times both unforgiving and unpredictable. And allows me to hold on to my dreams, perhaps even the illusion, for just a little bit longer.
From this sentiment I offer you a poem from the Canadian poet Margaret Atwood.
This is a photograph of me
It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.
(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.
I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.
It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion
but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)
Margaret Atwood
tarabridgetmoore
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