Oh autumn, how I love thee so. . . these next few months make my soul come alive in ways that summer never does. I like to think of autumn and winter as true monk months – the time of releasing, letting go, surrendering into silence and stilless, of waiting and dwelling in Mystery.
The autumn equinox falls on September 22nd this year—a time when the sun rests above the equator, and day and night are divided equally. It heralds a season filled with change, celebrates the harvest, and ushers in the brilliant beauty of death. Autumn is a season of transition, of continual movement.
At the heart of autumn's gifts are these twin energies of relinquishing and harvesting. It is a season of paradox that invites us to consider what we are called to release and surrender, and at the same time it invites us to gather in the harvest, to name and celebrate the fruits of the seeds we planted months ago. In holding these two in tension we are reminded that in our letting go we also find abundance.
In the seas all around me here in my beloved Northwest, the salmon are responding to an ancient and ancestral call. They are returning from the oceans, and making the hard and often battering journey up the rivers, to return to their birthplaces to lay eggs offering the gift of new life. This journey always ends in their own death. It is an amazing mystery as I imagine this deep longing for home the salmon must feel and the ultimate surrender they welcome while also offering a harvest of blessing for the next generation of salmon.
This past summer I traveled with my husband to Sacramento to see his parents. His mother is in the last stages of Alzheimer's and as her mind continues to unravel those of us who love her are left bereft, witnessing the vibrant beauty of a devoted mother slowly disappear. Fall thrusts us into the messiness of life and challenges us not to turn away. The season of autumn calls me to honor the full spectrum of human experience, to not push away the sorrow and grief, to not fill the waiting with distractions. I rest into the unknown, the not-yet knowing when an end will come for my beautiful mother-in-law. I stay present to the great sadness I feel.
As I walk each day, fall offers solace with her unbearable beauty. But some days, the wind gusts through and the trees are stripped bare. I weep at the ache I feel when I consider how everything I love in this world will one day die. The season calls me to let go of false assumptions, wrests my too-small images of God from me as I enter the Mystery of dying and rising. Autumn demands that I release what I think is important to do and returns me to the only thing which matters that I remember—to love and to allow love to sculpt me, even as it breaks my heart.
But equally, this season calls us to the harvest. Seeds planted long ago create a bounty and fullness in our lives. Autumn invites me to remember the places in my life where I had a dream that once felt tiny and has now grown and ripened into fullness. I savor these places where my life feels abundant. I relish the experience of being nourished by dreams into my own growing wholeness.
The poet Rilke writes of autumn: "Command the last fruits to be full; / give them just two more southern days, / urge them on to completion and chase / the last sweetness into the heavy wine." We move toward our own ripening and in that journey we let go of what no longer serves us. Fall urges us on to our own completion and sweetness.
We live in times when it often feels like everything is coming undone. This season reminds us that the journey of relinquishing all we hold dear is also the journey of harvesting. Somehow these two come together year after year. We are invited to rest into its mystery.
What are you releasing that no longer energizes you?
What dreams do you want to harvest this season?
Click here to read the article on Patheos>>
*the autumn collage photo is created from photos I received around the Seattle area
Make sure to stop by this week's Poetry Party as well on the theme of silence, savor the beautiful poems shared there, and offer your own to those gathered.