We, in these Northern environs, are racing towards the autumnal equinox. Each morning yields an expanding sea of gold, brown and red in our woods and backyard wetlands; each afternoon brings us deepening shadows; and each evening arrives noticeably sooner. "Today brought a loss of three minutes of sunshine" chants the local NPR meteorologist. Change is clearly in the air - and for me it evokes melancholia and trust simultaneously.The body is like a November birch facing the full moon
And reaching into the cold heavens.
In these trees there is no ambition, no sodden body, no leaves,
Nothing but bare trunks climbing like cold fire!
My last walk in the trees has come. At dawn
I must return to the trapped fields,
To the obedient earth.
The trees shall be reaching all the winter.
It is a joy to walk in the bare woods.
The moonlight is not broken by the heavy leaves.
The leaves are down, and touching the soaked earth,
Giving off the odor that partridges love.
(Solitude Late at Night in the Woods, Robert Bly)
So much of this life is beyond our control. Wind and rain is currently pounding the Carolinas into submission. Indonesia and Japan, too. Friends and loved ones send notes subtly suggesting sickness. Vulnerability seems to rise to the surface of each day as the leaves change and fall to the ground. Why am I surprised? Startled? Offended? Writers Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat teach that autumn can remind us" that nature's cycles are mirrored in our lives," but we have to be paying attention.
Autumn is a time for letting go and releasing things that have been a burden. All the religious traditions pay tribute to such acts of relinquish-
ment. Fall is the right time to practice getting out of the way and letting Spirit take charge of our lives... (It also reminds us) of the impermanence of everything. We have experienced the budding of life in spring and the flowerings and profusions of summer. Now the leaves fall and bare branches remind us of the fleeting nature of all things (https://www.spiritualityandpractice.com/practices/naming-the-days/view/10950/autumn-reflections-on-the-season)
I know that a quiet, aching sadness has always ambushed me each fall since I was young. Like St. Paul, I didn't know what to do with it for "when I was a child I spoke like a child and acted like a child and thought like a child." (I Corinthians 13) As my sorrow returns, however, it now brings a renewed invitation to trust. The Sufi mystical poet, Rumi, got it right in Coleman Barks translation of "Love Dogs."
One night a man was crying, Allah! Allah! His lips grew sweet with the praising, until a cynic said, "So! I have heard you calling out, but have you ever gotten any response?" The man had no answer to that. He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.
He then dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls, in a thick, green foliage. "Why did you stop praising?" "Because I've never heard
ment. Fall is the right time to practice getting out of the way and letting Spirit take charge of our lives... (It also reminds us) of the impermanence of everything. We have experienced the budding of life in spring and the flowerings and profusions of summer. Now the leaves fall and bare branches remind us of the fleeting nature of all things (https://www.spiritualityandpractice.com/practices/naming-the-days/view/10950/autumn-reflections-on-the-season)
I know that a quiet, aching sadness has always ambushed me each fall since I was young. Like St. Paul, I didn't know what to do with it for "when I was a child I spoke like a child and acted like a child and thought like a child." (I Corinthians 13) As my sorrow returns, however, it now brings a renewed invitation to trust. The Sufi mystical poet, Rumi, got it right in Coleman Barks translation of "Love Dogs."
One night a man was crying, Allah! Allah! His lips grew sweet with the praising, until a cynic said, "So! I have heard you calling out, but have you ever gotten any response?" The man had no answer to that. He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.
He then dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls, in a thick, green foliage. "Why did you stop praising?" "Because I've never heard
anything back." "This longing you express is the return message."
The grief you cry out from (you see) draws you toward union. Your pure sadness that wants help is the secret cup. Listen to the moan of a dog for its master. That whining is the connection.
There are love dogs no one knows the names of. Give your life to be one of them.”
The grief you cry out from (you see) draws you toward union. Your pure sadness that wants help is the secret cup. Listen to the moan of a dog for its master. That whining is the connection.
There are love dogs no one knows the names of. Give your life to be one of them.”
The constancy of my grief at this time of year is also the prayer of my heart. Its
return lures me towards trust. If, like seeing the falling leaves, I am paying attention. Such is the via negativa: the mystical and experiential path of loving God and living as a precious child of the Beloved. This trust must be nourished. Honored. Explored. For while this spiritual encounter is palpable, our minds only see "as through a glass darkly." The author, Christopher Hill, has noted much like Harvey Cox in The Feast of Fools that: "The Church is the great repository of mystery, but for the last century or so, the face of the mainstream churches have been pretty much the rational, main-street, daylight face of God — theology, ethics, charity and social outreach. Paul would have called it law and works,"
return lures me towards trust. If, like seeing the falling leaves, I am paying attention. Such is the via negativa: the mystical and experiential path of loving God and living as a precious child of the Beloved. This trust must be nourished. Honored. Explored. For while this spiritual encounter is palpable, our minds only see "as through a glass darkly." The author, Christopher Hill, has noted much like Harvey Cox in The Feast of Fools that: "The Church is the great repository of mystery, but for the last century or so, the face of the mainstream churches have been pretty much the rational, main-street, daylight face of God — theology, ethics, charity and social outreach. Paul would have called it law and works,"
The sixties awakened a thirst for a face of God that the churches had long since ceded to the arts, folklore, and popular culture — the night side of God. When we're cut off from the moon, the night, and the waters of mystery, the spiritual world is blinding and blisteringly arid. Mystery refreshes us. Mystery is a cool dark underground stream, a tributary of living water that bubbled up into that well in a dusty Middle-Eastern village where Jesus stopped at midday and spoke to a Samaritan woman. When our roots are sunk into mystery, we flourish like trees planted by a stream. (https://www.spiritualityandpractice.com/books/reviews/view/6588)
Celtic spirituality takes the dark seasons seriously. Indeed, their New Year begins with what we know as Halloween and All Saints/All Souls Day. It is often the start of Advent, too. That organically rings true to me: embracing loss on multiple levels so that we might celebrate the bounty and beauty of life whenever and wherever we find it. To paraphrase Psalm 85, "Now sorrow and joy embrace, today melancholia and trust kiss deeply."
continued later in the day (after house cleaning)...
Part of the trusting that nourishes me arises intuitively through the annual return of the blues. But the via negativa is not the whole show. When autumn arrives I also get to celebrate the birthdays of my daughter and grandson. Their presence fills me full to overflowing with gratitude. As October dawns, we get to spend time together playing, feasting and remembering the blessings come into creation simply by their being. And this year we'll add icing to the cake by taking-in a local pumpkin festival!
My heart sees pumpkins sacramentally: as earthy ambassadors of Mother Nature, these big, odd, beautiful, and often gnarled symbols speak to me of God's constancy. Breaking through the brown earth with bold colors when everything else has been harvested, pumpkins proclaim that God hasn't given up on us yet. They come in all sizes. Some people eat them, others carve them, many of us bake them into pies. And a few like me just gaze upon them with gratitude. Birthdays and the equinox, the blues and pumpkins fill me with awe as autumn ripens. Thanks be to God.
continued later in the day (after house cleaning)...
Part of the trusting that nourishes me arises intuitively through the annual return of the blues. But the via negativa is not the whole show. When autumn arrives I also get to celebrate the birthdays of my daughter and grandson. Their presence fills me full to overflowing with gratitude. As October dawns, we get to spend time together playing, feasting and remembering the blessings come into creation simply by their being. And this year we'll add icing to the cake by taking-in a local pumpkin festival!
My heart sees pumpkins sacramentally: as earthy ambassadors of Mother Nature, these big, odd, beautiful, and often gnarled symbols speak to me of God's constancy. Breaking through the brown earth with bold colors when everything else has been harvested, pumpkins proclaim that God hasn't given up on us yet. They come in all sizes. Some people eat them, others carve them, many of us bake them into pies. And a few like me just gaze upon them with gratitude. Birthdays and the equinox, the blues and pumpkins fill me with awe as autumn ripens. Thanks be to God.
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