Once the season shows its full glory of transformation, all sorts of shifts begin, and my mind follows nature’s cues. The heavy skies have a way of drawing my attention inward, keenly focused not only on what matters but also how deeply it matters and how authentic I am being.
On Facebook, posts of thankfulness populate the news feed, and anticipation of coming holidays fills the air. But nature and my religious tradition take it a bit slower. There is much to be grateful for, and naming it is good. I cannot help but notice, however, the violent winds that scatter the last of the leaves, undoubtedly yanking apart the reluctant ones not yet ready to let go. I notice, too, the fertile, earthy smell of the rotting leaves after the dreary mists linger long enough to saturate the ground. Beneath the crushed, no longer crunchy dead leaves, the ground is teeming with life . . . or at least the potential of it.
Amazed at the poignant reflection offered in still water, I allow myself to remain open to hearing what the wind might whisper, what my soul might long to proclaim. Sometimes I am more full of swirling leaves than brilliant flashing of light; sometimes more crumbled and stuck to the muddy ground than an exciting pile awaiting a leap of faith. Wherever I am, there is the promise of hope for the next season. Most importantly for now, there is trust that this season now is working in ways that are meant to be.