Tuesday's Reflection: An Ode to Fall

The other day my husband tempted me away from my desk with an invitation to take a drive. "Maybe we'll find pumpkins." He did not need to say one more thing. Besides, it was a gorgeous fall day, and I had already been at my desk for a chunk of the morning and after all, how many more days will we have to ride in his little car with the top down?

Off we went, and of course, we did find pumpkins. I asked the owner of the pumpkin patch and apple orchard if it is a good pumpkin year and he said quietly, "I am grateful for what we have." Ah, yes, to be grateful for what we have. 

I restrained myself, only adding to my pile of small orange and white ones for one of the apothecary jars in our sun room, but also selecting the palest of orange pumpkins for the front stoop. One more front step is now pumpkined --my apology to all word purists. 

             Summer's loss seems little, dear, 
             on days like these.
                                 Ernest Dowson

I love this season, and I know I am not alone in that. Sitting at my desk in the garret I see patches of red leaves, tempting the others to turn red and amazingly, when I glance up from my laptop again, it seems as if more have decided to join the red team. 
             
             Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to
             it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the
             earth seeking the successive autumns. 
                                  George Eliot

One year when we lived at Sweetwater Farm we grew pumpkins, and I filled our open front porch with them, inviting anyone to help themselves. Another year our son was marrying our dear Cricket, and we had the rehearsal dinner on a gorgeous fall evening at the farm. Vintage fall tablecloths and white pumpkins stenciled with hearts decorated the tables under the tent. Pumpkins were every where, for I had made many trips to my favorite pumpkin stand, filling the Jeep each trip. A bounty of friends and family joined us that evening to celebrate a new season of life. 

I remember the time a friend sent me a large box of bittersweet from the mountain behind her Pennsylvania home. I swagged the white picket fence from driveway to backdoor with an abundance of bittersweet. Our fall drives always included sweeping the landscape for signs of bittersweet, hoping we remembered the garden shears and if some were spotted, like the flash of a red tail hawk, that it could be reached without danger to life and limb. This year I am content to have a bunch hanging on the front of an old painted cupboard, loving the splash of orange against the faded aqua.

My decorating is more spare now, but there is still the urge to make sure the house knows the season has changed. On the entry table along with a bouquet of hydrangeas and pheasant feathers I have opened a vintage copy, given to me by a dear friend, of Thoreau's Autumn. 

          Some single trees, wholly bright 
          scarlet, seen against others of  
          their kind still freshly green, or
          against evergreens, are more 
          memorable than 
          whole groves will be by and by. How beautiful 
          when a whole tree is like one great scarlet fruit, 
          full of ripe juices, every leaf, from lowest limb to 
          topmost spire, all a-glow, especially if you look 
          toward the sun. What more remarkable object can 
          there be in the landscape? Visible for miles, too fair
          to be believed. If such a phenomenon occurred but 
          once, it would be handed down by tradition to posterity 
          and get into the mythology at last.
                                    Henry David Thoreau

Vintage candles--pumpkins and witches and black cats, oh my!, make me smile from their perch on the kitchen windowsill. In the evening battery-lit glass pumpkins keep us company as we close the door and pull the blinds till morning sun returns. A throw on the leather couch, a tumble of velvet pumpkins, a candle with the smell of cinnamon--all reminders for me to pay attention to the change that is happening outside and to be mindful of changes going on in my own spirit. A tucking in. A release from the fullness of summer. 

The temperature has been summer warm today, and I enjoyed having lunch and reading at the patio table. A squirrel chattering at me reminded me, however, that it only had so much time to gather and hide nuts for winter, and I was in its way. Yes, there is almost so much time, and I, too, need to be mindful of how I spend it. Right now being present to the changing of the seasons seems the very best way. 

An Invitation
How do you mark the changing of seasons? What are you mindful of as you move from summer to fall? I would love to know. 

Tuesday's Reflection: Stillness

The idea for this post came to me on a day I was not feeling well. I felt heavy and cloudy, as if I were sleepwalking. I imagined myself as an ice cube tray full of water being carried from the faucet to the refrigerator. Please don't spill me. I wanted to slip myself into an envelope and be invisible. I wanted to be a button as it is slid into a loop where I would feel held, but not tightly, just securely. 

I yearned for stillness. 

I yearn for stillness.

Stillness in Nature
As we drove once again from St Paul to Madison, I could sense the earth at rest. This is not the time for action, but a time to become still, to lie fallow, to lie in wait. Only the day before had the wind pushed the remaining leaves on the trees to let go, and they gushed, rushed, whirled, creating liquid gold on city lawns and streets. 

The next day the wind itself was still, reminding the earth that it is time to meditate. This was the stillness before we could even ask, "What now?" "What's next?"

I have felt in that gushing, rushing whirling state for the past months as we plowed our way through the many tasks of moving my father and then ourselves into a home in St Paul while still maintaining our Madison home. There have been so many times I have felt the way I do when walking a labyrinth, and I sense the entrance to the center is near.  Much to my surprise, however, the path swings me far away from the center. The path loops around once again, for apparently it is not time yet to enter the center.  It is not yet time to be in that place, to receive the gifts of being in the center. 

My job as I loop around following the path is to remain balanced. To find the stillness within, even as I continue on the path. 

The Need for Stillness
I have always liked Monday mornings, the feeling of starting anew, of plotting just how to accomplish everything that must be done. It all seems possible as I make my list. I feel in control--until the unexpected. What had looked like a spacious week, suddenly was filling in ways that at first glance seemed unproductive, ways that would take time away from crossing tasks off my list. Ok, I will access my flexible side, I told myself, whichever side that turns out to be. I was resigned, until I couldn't find my little notebook with my lists for the upcoming move--phone numbers and other notations I stored there, rather than in my head. Only Monday morning, and I had lost control.

What to do? At those times there is really nothing left to do, but move into stillness, and that's what I did. 

I stretched out on the chaise in the den and took several deep breaths. I placed my hands, palms facing upwards on my lap, and closed my eyes. I let the stillness descend on me, and I opened to the stillness within. I could hear the action of the washer and dryer upstairs and also the construction noise outside. Yes, it is possible to be still, even when the world around you is not silent. 

I noticed my breathing and could feel myself finding my own rhythm. I entered this time with no expectation of great insight or with any expectations. Not even with the hope that when I re-entered the agenda of the day I would miraculously find my little notebook. Sitting in stillness is good for its own sake. 

Stillness When None is Available
Here it is the first week of December, and the desire for stillness seems totally incongruous with the busyness of the month. Whose idea was it anyway to cram so many holidays into such a short period of time? Wouldn't Halloween or Thanksgiving have been enough, but no, for those of us who celebrate Christmas, which is only 22 days away, these are busy, bustling times.   

How does one find or create stillness in such busy days when the extras of holiday activities are added onto the normal everyday routines of life? 

This is exactly the time when stillness is a necessity; when it is crucial, not just important, to carve out moments of stillness. It is time to push the pause button. 

Take a deep breath wherever you are and whatever you are doing and invite calm and stillness to enter your body through every pore. Stand completely still, but breathe naturally for just a few seconds, longer if you can. Notice your body's gratitude for the brief time out. 

Remember when your children were young and you sent them to their room for a "time out." Well, we are the ones who need a time out. Take one. Now. 

Oh, and by the way, I did find my little "moving" notebook.

December's Meditation
The theme for this month's meditation, which I will post on Thursday, is "stillness." I hope it will help you find that still place within, even during these busy days. 

An Invitation
What are your challenges with being still? Do you always need to be doing something? Do you know what it feels like to be still? If you practice stillness, what are the fruits? I invite your comments.

On the Bridge, the Spiritual Practice of Transitions a post by Nancy L. Agneberg

    I am frequently aware of being in the midst of transition, and that interests me and becomes an opening for examination of both my inner life, as well as what is swirling around me in my outer life. 

   Fall into Winter

   This morning I noticed evidence of transitions as I walked through the neighborhood. Mainly, the transition between fall and winter, between Halloween and Christmas. Pumpkins, some almost melting in on themselves thanks to frosty nights, along with pots of mums, browning and losing an intensity of color still dominate the scene, but at the same time Christmas decorations are beginning to appear. Greens in window boxes. Lights on trees. Even an artificial Christmas tree on a front porch where pumpkins still march up the stairs. We know we are not quite done with one season, but still there is the temptation and inclination to move into the next season. We treasure and exalt Thanksgiving as a holiday that demands little of us except turkey and mashed potatoes and offers us a chance to express gratitude for our many blessings, but at the same time time, we feel the urgency of Christmas looming ahead in a countdown of shopping days. I say this not to pass judgment or to plead for simplicity and sanity. Instead, I think about the movement in our lives.

     A Transition of the Heart
     Earlier this week my husband needed a heart catheterization in order to determine if the symptoms he was experiencing were the result of blockage and damage to the heart. The good news is that no stent or bypass is needed, but instead drug therapy is proscribed, along with some life style changes that will be good for both of us. The day in the hospital awaiting the procedure was long, but we both remained calm and patient. Bruce rested, and I gazed out the window with its soothing view of Lake Monona over the bare treetops.  Time to breathe and time to be. 
      Later I thought about how my diagnosis of uterine cancer 10 years ago when I was 54 felt like an experience out of time.  Not in the rightful order of things. I felt too young for that to happen. A totally unrealistic assumption, of course. Now we are 64, and as we face this wake up call, it feels as if we are taking a major step into the next stage of our life.  We can't dismiss the possibility of physical issues beyond the norm of colds and flu. Dear friends face cancer or recover from surgeries of various kinds. We are getting older. We are in transition. 
     Bridge Work
     When I meditated the other day, a word arrived in my heart. Bridge. That is how this time feels. We are on a bridge. At times the bridge seems to sway in a strong wind and at times I lose sight of where I have come from, and the way ahead is not very clear, but I don't feel threatened by that. Instead, I am aware of the importance to take every step, to stop and pause often. To breathe and to be. 
     The morning of the heart cath I spent my meditation time with   the new book, Seven Thousand Ways to Listen, Staying Close to What is Sacred, by one of my spiritual guides, Mark Nepo and was given a gift of two words: unplanned unfoldings. This is how transition feels to me. Nepo says, "The larger intention is to stay in relationship with everything that comes along, at least long enough to taste what is living." As I become aware of where I am on the bridge, I pray I accept the invitation of unplanned unfoldings to live fully with love, instead of fear. 
NOTE: As I have been writing this post I have observed a hawk on a nearby tree. As I entered the last word, he flew away. I am grateful for his watchful presence.