feeling the fullness of fall...

The fullness of fall has arrived in these New England hills. The temperature is sliding ever lower each day, every 24 hours we regularly lose 2-4 minutes of sunlight, a cold rain has now enveloped our region, and two thirds of the leaves in our wetlands are down on the ground. The local NPR meteorologist even suggested that some of the hill towns might wake up to snow this morning. The electricity was knocked out for a few hours last night during a storm with wild gusts of wind - and for about 30 minutes this morning, too - yet another clue that autumn has taken up residence and is moving us towards winter in these parts. The hills are now totally gray, brown, and yellow.

All afternoon his tractor pulls a flat wagon
with bales to the barn, then back to the waiting chopped field. It trails a feather of smoke. Down the block we bend with the season: shoes to polish for a big game,
storm windows to batten or patch.
And how like a field is the whole sky now
that the maples have shed their leaves, too.
It makes us believers—stationed in groups,
leaning on rakes, looking into space. We rub blisters
over billows of leaf smoke. Or stand alone,
bagging gold for the cold days to come.  
  - David Baker, "Neighbors in October"

It is somehow fitting that for the first time in 67 years I am just now paying close attention to the land. Certainly, in times past, I have paid attention to other things. But for the past eight months our home has become a living tutorial offering me the chance to take-in the wisdom of God's first word: creation. As I have confessed before, I was unable to grasp the insights of the seasons and unwilling to honor the sacred intelligence of the soil, plants, trees, sky, air and water. Mine was a thoroughly anthropocentric spirituality that arrogantly and ignorantly missed the presence of the holy in nature that invited me to rest into a love greater than myself. 

For decades I read these words from St. Paul but ignored their deeper meaning: "Ever since the creation of the world God's eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things God has made. So (we) are without excuse; for though (we) knew God, (we) did not honor God as holy or give thanks to God, so we became futile in our thinking, and our senseless minds were darkened. Claiming to be wise, (we) became fools... (Romans 1: 20-22) Periodically I experienced flickering clues - the mysterious majesty of a cave behind a waterfall in Southern Ohio, random bubbling brooks springing up in the woods that evoked a timeless serenity, a sense of grace under the stars of Northern New Mexico, the awe of holding my newborn daughters, the staggering humility of witnessing 4,000 sandhill cranes land at a migratory watering hole, or slipping into an undeserved contentment by a roaring fire - yet still I remained stubbornly rooted in my intellectual hubris. Only now can I celebrate that cumulatively these small sparks have burst into a flame within and where once I was blind, now I can see.

The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
  - James Wright, "Beginning"

Without access to the Internet this morning, I sorted through various files on my computer, discarding letters and pictures that no longer mattered. It felt like an appropriately autumn act. When I came upon these lyrics from Donovan, however, I had to smile - and let go of my carping about how long its taken me to wake up to creation's wisdom - and simply give thanks that my entry into the wisdom of nature is a continuing process. A gradual awakening. The old master put it like this in his soundtrack to the Zeffirelli film about Francis and Clare, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon." "If you want your dream to be, take your time, go slowly. Do few things, but do them well, heartfelt work grows purely. Day by day, stone by stone, build your secret slowly. Day by day, you'll grow, too. You'll know heaven's glory." It continues to be one of my favorite movies.

The first time the song appears it is winter and Francis has been wounded in the Crusades. After meeting death, and being brought back to health, he senses Jesus calling him to "rebuild his church." Without fully comprehending this call, Francis sets out to literally rebuild the chapel of San Damiano. The tune is slow and tentative, defined by the snow and the cold.

Later, the same song returns during the dedication of the rebuilt San Damiano chapel. It is now early summer. Creation is bursting with fecundity. The young lambs have been born, the first fruits of the field are yielding their treasure, and the core of creation is full to overflowing with life. I like to use this scene in my conversation with cradle Congregationalists about the multi-layered blessings of Eucharist. (Also the French dinner scene in "Babette's Feast," a clip from "Chocolat" and the closing of the great cloud of witnesses from "Places of the Hear." This tune never ceases to nourish me...

Sorting, cleaning, listening, watching, making careful choices that move slowly seem to be part of the blessings of autumn. I am going to start morning prayer with this wee song during the growing darkness before Advent. I am going to start baking bread again, too. I didn't feel like it was a summer practice: the house was too hot and the food would be too filling for June, July, August and even September. It has been a full quarter year since I made a loaf. But, the very air of this day suggests that the time has come to shift gears.

The whiskey stink of rot has settled
in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises
when I touch the dying tomato plants.

Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms
flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots
and toss them in the compost.

It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready
to let go of summer so easily. To destroy
what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.
Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.

My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village
as they pulled the flax. Songs so old
and so tied to the season that the very sound

seemed to turn the weather.

  - Karina Borowicz, "September Tomatoes"

Christine Valters Painter, a wise and subtle teacher about the spirituality of the seasons and the elements, asks us to "follow the thread... of our unique story and calling in the world." That is, be like Francis and Claire, moving slowly without full knowledge of how the story ends. "Let it emerge in its own time, tending the symbols and synchronicities with guide it along." She continues:

I think of autumn and winter as the seasons of the monk, with their invitations to release and move into stillness. Our modern culture embraces the energies of spring and summer with their emphasis on perpetual blossoming and fruitfulness. But the entire cycle of creation offers us a wise reminder of what is necessary for the fullness of life. Releasing and resting are integral to the spring being able to arrive again. In the great monastic traditions of Christianity, we find those ancient monks teaching us about this path of falling. The desert mothers and fathers left their lives in the cities behind, and fled to harsh landscapes to be stripped down to their essence. They longed to find God in that place of radical simplicity. The stories of these early wisdom guides reveal their desire to not be owned by things, but to live with an open-hearted and open-handed approach to life.

(https://www.patheos.com/progressive-christian/2014/09/wisdom-of-autumn-christine-valters-paintner-09-09-2014)

The closing words in her autumn spirituality essay speak to me as I honor and own my own entrance into this wisdom:

The nature of the human mind is to grasp onto things, to try and figure life out, to try and maintain control when things feel chaotic and wild. Monastic wisdom teaches us that this kind of grasping hardens our minds, our hearts, and our bodies. Our lifelong journey is always toward a softening, a greater tenderness, so that we can meet life with a raw opening toward beauty and wonder.

Yesterday, on the last warm day of fall, a friend gave me a rosary he'd selected on a recent trip to Fatima. Today, intuitively sensing the shift among us, Di made soup for lunch using the cale remnants from our garden. Tonight we'll meet to start practicing songs for our late November show in solidarity with the Sanctuary congregations in town. Let the journey into tenderness continue...