We step on fallen leaves in autumn, in tumbled heaps of dead or dying bodies allover the lawns and sidewalks. These are the same leaves that had brought so much hope in spring, and that faithfully performed their life-giving functions all summer, by helping turn sunlight into living tissue for their own trees and indirectly for us. Many of the dead and rejected leaves are still exquisitely beautiful in their shapes and colours, red maple leaves like those on the Canadian flag, and brown and yellow oak leaves. others are curling at the edges, or already completely desiccated.

We step on them on the sidewalks, or sweep them or rake them out of our way, or put them into bags ready for the garbage pick-up. There are far too many to give each a decent funeral, or any thanks for tasks well performed. They are just so much garbage (as indeed our own dead bodies will be, in spite of funeral rites). There is no dignity, let alone worship.

As I walk along on the way to performed my (oh, so important) tasks, I no longer know where the boundary lies between the profane and the sacred.