This time of year beckons us into our roots.
Autumn sinks the energy of life into the underworld to slumber for a season. The falling of the leaves are teachers giving us permission to let go of our overwhelm and trust that we have done all we could this past peak solar cycle.
How do trees simply, and beautifully, let go of the chorophylled solar panels that power their restorative respiration?
How can they trust so fearlessly in the cycles of life as to give into the darkness? Do they hold on until the very last moment before there is nothing left in the branch to clasp the stem anymore… What is it that held it just moments before?
Do the tree beings ever question whether this is going to be the winter when their buds don’t make it through the cold grip of father freeze?
I like to imagine trees trusting their original instructions and each other to continue on in service to the earth, masterfully orchestrated by the sun, no matter the weather or uncertainty of the future.
I like to imagine the maple trees sending their roots little nutrient packages for the holidays, trusting that an investment in the future will reward them with all the sap their trunks could handle come the sunny days of early spring.
How do they deal with the death of not only their leaves but their fellow trees? When can a tree being even be declared dead?
Does the earth sense the unbecoming and make them a delightful deathbed?
I’ve learned that the most effective way to tell if the animal in front of you is dead, is an eyeball that doesn’t flinch upon touching it.
Is there an analogous technique for trees? Is it when the knocked upon is hollow underneath? Is it when the leaves of the tree cease to be? Is it when the woodpecker has drilled a thousand and one holes successfully?
As we keep ourselves warm with the bodies of fallen tree beings, whether they are in the woodstove breathing, or holding up the walls and ceiling. We are warmed by the life that the light is consuming. We are reminded by the cold that thee inevitable is looming.
Where two tracks meet, and only one leaves… We stay humble by the consumable grief.
We recognize that all life lives and dies in due time, no matter what we achieve.
Gratitude is a practice of weaving those connections through conscious recognition of the you inside thee other. The bloodline within your sisters and your brothers. The honor that comes in service to our gracious earth mother.
Are we all just vessels of water, drinking in the many ways in which waves can be?
Is a cloud just a moisture filled cruise ship looking for a safe harboring?
Is the ice nation not but a memory bank of old world wonders and feats of creatures acting courageously?
Is the dry land in which we wander but the floor of an ocean of atmosphere waiting for the next wind shift? Doesn’t the water give us the wings required for all life to live.
Gravity keeps us grounded into predictability and yet we are walking H20 galaxies. Holding us down to earth, home of the bi-pedal ath-elites. DNA beings unfolding into a shared reality.
Is death just a black hole that births us into infinity?
Is evaporation really as bad as it could possibly seem, or do we all just return home eventually?
When we set fire to water, we raise a little steam, sure as a ship on the mississippi, we always end up downstream.
Our earth is 70% liquid water, and our human bodies are nearly so as well, on average.
Is this proportional symmetry an isolated incident or is this one of many in an unbroken stream of coincidence?
Our clay bodies are requesting that we tend to our basic needs, while our minds imagine all the goals we could possibly exceed. Our souls know where to go, tending to the dark places tenderly.
Autumn asks us to look into our shadow, truthful and lovingly. It shows us how we can be one human family if we are mindful of feeding each other seasonally.
The Sun sinks low in the early afternoon, his death reminds us that we will be born again soon.
