If You Are Quiet You Can Hear the Leaves Fall

Reposting this is becoming an autumn tradition

If you are very quiet
you can hear 
the leaves fall,
following
their twirling, swirling dance
with your ears
as well as your eyes, 
until they come to rest
gently
at your feet.

Amidst the 
gales 
that loosen
their grip,
even amidst the 
tumult
that rages
in your mind, 
if you stop, and
if you will yourself
to listen, 
you will hear their
falling-gently-to-earth whispers, 
as they rustle through
their companions
on the once-in-a-lifetime
descent.

Background noise
fills my mind
right now...
Outer noise of destruction, 
of greed, 
of power wielded wrongly.
Inner voices of fear,
of sadness, 
of outrage, 
of powerlessness...
noise that will surely drown me 
if I let it and
render me deaf, 
even to the Good.

And yet,

in stillness,
I can notice that
which is beyond
myself
and all my thoughts.
Gazing at
the trees of autumn,
standing and swaying
in the winds
that strip their leaves,

Grace breaks through.
I am renewed.

If you are very quiet, you can hear the leaves fall. 
Listen....

Deeply Rooted

 

Windflowers
(because they are deeply rooted,
with a nod to Psalm 1 and St Paul)

Tall
and graceful,
supple dancers
straining heavenward,
though no one tends them,
swaying in the slightest breeze
storm-blown but not broken
in autumn as others fade
cheery pink and yellow 
welcoming faces
hosting hungry
bees.

What Better Way?

What better way to greet the dawn this chilly,
drizzly, breezy morning than to wander,
wrapped in my old blanket,
among the damp salvia and agastache
and asters, blues and purples all,
or to delight in the sunny late black-eyed Susans
and the scarlet of the young blueberries
against the backdrop of slowly-turning autumn
colors of the woods?

How better to welcome the
newness of today 
than listening to the rhythm of the rain,
to the early cries of blue jays,
of crows and cardinals and
white-throated sparrows and the 
melodies of still-present crickets and katydids,
counting down what is left of the lingering
warm days of the year?

We are on the cusp of the Earth's long rest but,
like a child not yet ready for bed,
she prances and twirls,
showing off her extravagant colors and
throwing down her fruit...
abundance free for the taking, 
inviting all who are willing into
her dance of renewal.

This Misty Morning

The fog is a blanket this morning,

shielding me, as I sit on the front porch,
from the curious eyes
of neighbors.
But I can see all that I wish to
of my world, shrouded 
in the mist and
the sounds of wild things.

The chipmunks seem in a determined frenzy, 
hurriedly stocking up on the seeds
that will see them through the winter, and
the landscape is painted with
muted golds and purples, as  
the orange coneflowers, 
the aromatic asters,
and the stalwart salvias bloom on, 
feeding lingering ruby-throats and
the myriad bumblebees still
buzzing through the gardens.

Against the backdrop of cricket's and katydid's
early autumn songs,
the first ruby-crowned kinglet and
purple finch appeared in the
old apple tree, 
the kinglet boldly flitting through
the branches, apparently finding enough
prey to make its foraging worthwhile,
the finch still, cautious and watchful,
carefully weighing the dangers of this 
unfamiliar landscape before
settling in at a feeder, 
eager to dine after its journey from
the north.

I am swathed in gratitude this morning.
All I did was place seeds and small plants
into the ground last spring and they,
of their own accord,
have erupted into bounty.
The Creator, who has  been thusly
providing for all of life in the same manner,
is smiling. 
And I am smiling too on this foggy
October morning, thankful to be
partners with God.

 

Giant's Toes

The last few weeks have been full of the experience of caring for my former spiritual director in her last days and finally, the exhausting honor and privilege of accompanying her to the far edge of her life. This morning, I went looking for anchors.

 

What keeps them standing, against the odds
of gravity, wind and rain,
of eagles nests and woodpeckers'
excavations and human
intrusions?

What anchors them in tumultuous times, 
branches whipping wildly,
their trunks swaying to the
rhythm of the wind
as storms seem bent on destruction?

I know of roots and cambium,
of heartwood, xylem and phloem,
but what of these curious protrusions 
that grip the earth as if
holding on for dear life?

Surely we need whimsy in the face
of what feels like chaos.
We need to let our minds
run free and welcome the moments of 
imagination that allow us to breathe again
and to smile, if only in passing. 

They are the giants' toes, of course.

Gratitude in Tumultuous Times

 

For granting this space, that I may share 

 in Your creative, sustaining of life, 

thanks be to You, O God.

 

 

     For the miracle of seeds that turn the simplicity of lawn    

into a riot of color and beauty,

haven for small creatures,

thanks be to You.

For the ever present late-summer music of

crickets and katydids

and the goldfinch song among the sunflowers,

for monarchs and swallowtails and bees of all sizes feeding

on buckwheat in the hedgerow,

thanks be to You.

For blossoms that feed the
  migrating ruby-throats,

almost-never-still, zipping

back and forth between flowers,

feeders and each other,

thanks be to You.

For the deep peace of such a place,

for the gift of participating in the provision of Your care,
over and over,
day by day,

moment by moment,

thanks be to You.

On Acceptance

This post was originally written for Prayer Notes, an online publication by Oasis Ministry for Spiritual Development and will appear there in August.  https://oasismin.org/prayernotes

I have become quite fond of the green frogs who inhabit the old pond that came with the house. And the one goldfish who, along with another who is now missing, produced an uncountable number of progeny that I have no idea what to do with. I am grateful for the young flickers who poke exploratory holes in the ancient apple tree’s immature fruit and the catbirds who not-so-stealthily pilfer blueberries from bushes I put in this spring. I don’t mind the chipmunk who tunnels around the newly planted hydrangea, or even the young rabbits who feel the need to sample almost everything I’ve planted. I have a sense of belonging in their midst, they who were here long before we arrived.

But the snapping turtle was another matter. I first noticed its nostrils poking above the water’s surface one recent evening, fearful at first that some displaced sea monster had entered the pond. As it raised its head and I recognized the newcomer, I admit to being momentarily horrified even, thankfully, as a curious fascination took hold.

And so…in addition to all the creatures I have most gladly welcomed, we have this one I would not have chosen, but have come to accept as being a member of our tiny ecosystem. It is said that the contemplative life is one in which we are invited to open ourselves to what is…the reality around us as it is, what we like and don’t like, what we can and cannot change, and to live our lives from that noticing. I have been given an intimate, tangible reminder of that invitation and have found that in my responding, surprisingly, he or she has become not so objectionable after all. Thanks be to God!