Untranscendentalism]
O and I went stomping in the fallen fall leaves this weekend, concentrating on the patch of earth under a fabulous maple, or maybe it was an oak, or something else, which had turned a glorious palette of yellows and reds and browns. In an Emersonian moment, I tried to pass on what little I knew about the sinuous veins that glowed in the cold, late afternoon sunshine. He took the leaves, ripped them to shreds, and tossed the remnants over his shoulder.
Creative destruction, it is called.