We are in a
transition, on the edge. Marked by a date and time calculated in a thirty-box
grid we call a calendar. We know it because we’ve known it our whole lives.
The now is familiar, the macrocosm of all
autumns that ever were. And it is the sole, unique moment of this minute of
this morning, this day, date, year. It is this defined singular particular
autumn in this precise place – geographically, literally – as well as on the
inner landscape of soul.
We know autumn because
our walks with our dogs and our commutes to our jobs are happening in a smaller
window of daylight.
It is everything – the totality of who we
are that we bring to bear on right now: the sum total heavy Usness…history
emotion disposition…in a dance with the in-breath. It is this Everythingness
from the past that is interwoven with the Openness of now – the pure abidance
in a breath or image, a sound or sensation. We string it all together and bring
as much from all the thens of our past and the could-be pureness of this now
and they mix, merge, swirl.
The truth is, I
know autumn because I feel it in the air, I see it on the trees, I notice it in
the thickening fur coat on my dog.
Step up to now. To the precious Now with
all that you are in the wholeness of a new round ripe drop of presence. Call
that moment “autumn” if you must. But
step into it fully and let yourself thrive in it.
We slow down
enough into Now to notice and glorify with our pure attention the thousands of
small changes that are transforming the landscape – each one, moment by moment.
From green to gold to red to leafless; from warm and cool to
chilly; from dry and crispy to wet blessed cold mud; from the multiple daily
hummingbird visits to once every other day; from songbirds and breezes to jays
crows and windstorms.
I know autumn
because I see pumpkins lying full and round on the ground.
I know autumn
because I taste the memory of stew from last fall on my tongue.
I know autumn
because the spider webs are now clinging to me in unexpected moments through
outdoor passageways, the Weavers creating great thick woven spirals overnight.
We know autumn because
the leaves are beginning their steady progression from limb-attached to
groundcover.
Watch the subtle changes, of the huge
transformation, by being present to the little stuff now. We can’t wait for the
big burning bush thing. We have got to be present with the spark of color on
the tip of one single leaf at the edge of the yard, and to notice the slight shifts of hue
in the blue-blue-blueness overhead.
Allow your body to
sit still for just long enough to feel the slightly cooler breath of midday and
the heavy sigh of cold black midnight.
Practice noticing the gradual shifting of
the season. Be present for its unfolding, bit by bit.
We have the best
of two things converging as we transition from summer to autumn, like an
ecotone especially rich in biodiversity where two or more biomes meet; we get
the lingering late blossoms, the early brilliant foliage and the sweet marriage
of still-warm days to suddenly brisk nights. It is not the longest daylight nor
is it the punctuated bare minimum of days that constitutes the darkest season of
winter.
I don’t want to
wait until the entire tree has turned to gold before I notice the riches and
clear shining beauty of it. I would rather embrace the single golden leaf on
one twig of a larger branch in the northwest lower corner of the cherry tree,
the very one I saw yesterday, and watch the process unfold as it will. I would
rather embrace that one small gift, and the other little things along the way,
than waiting to declare it autumn when the last leaf has dropped off the tree.
Autumn is the
unfolding, not the final result. Life is the unfolding, not the final product.
All blog images created and/or photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
