A Reflection on Autumn and Transitions
“Every year / everything / I have ever learned
in my lifetime / leads back to this: the fires / and the black river of loss / whose other side
is salvation, / whose meaning / none of us will ever know. / To live in this world
you must be able / to do three things: / to love what is mortal; / to hold it
against your bones knowing / your own life depends on it; / and, when the time comes to let it go, / to let it go.”
-excerpt of In Blackwater Woods by Mary Oliver, 1983
Sometimes I wonder if caterpillars think about what’s on the other side of their cocoon? I wonder what bears dream about during the deep sleep of hibernation? I wonder about the endless unexplored paths the moment we make a decision. Who would I be if I made one slightly different choice? Do the other versions of me continue on or drift in stasis never being able to fulfill their destiny? I have my suspicions, but that’s for another time.
It never fails. Every autumn, I am faced with the inextricable feeling of deep reflection and personal change. It feels that I am forever at some juncture in life that is reflective of this pivotal season. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the process of becoming and the impending death that comes with the shedding of old skin. I was recently listened to the podcast “On Being” with Krista Tippett and she was interviewing Adrienne Maree Brown. One particular piece of the conversation that really struck me was when Brown started talking about Octavia Butler, a renowned Black woman Sci-Fi writer, and how she really highlighted how nature can be a teacher. It felt particularly relevant to how I’ve been feeling lately. To that end, there is a saying that autumn teaches one the art of letting go and I firmly believe that is one of the most important of the innumerable lessons it has bestowed upon me over the years.
You would think that I would shy away from a time of such great upheaval, but instead I do my best to lean into it. It’s uncomfortable as hell like an itchy wool sweater, but I know that’s where growth lives.
Autumn is my favorite season because it speaks of something so quintessentially human as change. But, yes, there are other reasons that this season calls to me that are not so amorphous. I love being able to layer my clothes and feel the slight chill in the air. I love the smell of cinnamon and clove and I enjoy apple picking and evening bonfires with friends. Yet, at the heart of it, I love autumn because it is all about transitions.
We are rapidly approaching Samhain/Dia De Los Muertos/All Hallows’ Eve. So many cultures have marked this occasion when the veil of sorts is thin and our transitions become more perceivable. I feel its weight thick upon my skin. Maybe it’s the layering of lives pressed against the fabric of my reality calling me forward.
Needless to say, this year has been a tough one. In late March, days after my 32nd birthday, grief laid its heavy hands upon my shoulders like a homemade quilt on cool winter nights. I still smell the mothballs from its time tucked away in a chest in the corner of my mind. To be honest, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with family, but I can never deny the mark left by the two women who raised me during a difficult time in my childhood. Now, with both of them having transitioned on to their next iteration, I feel their lost presence like a load upon my chest. It is an absence that will never be filled.
But that is only but one form of grief that I have had to grapple with. Grief is a multi-headed beast that likes to seep beneath the skin when you least expect it. In the last year, I’ve had to learn how to live on my own again. Boundaries had to be adjusted and reenforced time and again with people in my life. I’ve had to force myself to establish self-care routines and address unresolved trauma. It has been hard to strip away old ways of being. Yet, as with most human experiences, it is layered. Sadness is but only a fraction of the feelings that bubble up. I have also experienced hope and joy and love in equal measures.
Yet, I can not deny that I am left utterly altered, although not necessarily in a bad way. I’ve spent years searching for what I felt was my voice and for the first time I believe that I’ve found her. It’s funny because I entered my 30s a few years ago so naively confident that I knew who I was, but the years that followed rocked me to my core. They showed me that the only constant is change and I better buckle up. And, they were right. There was so much more beneath the anxiety ridden young woman that I was. There is a surety and calmness now that I could never have envisioned before. That is not to say that I don’t still grapple with my anxiety, but it is no longer crippling. I have found that I can navigate situations that would have left me spiraling in the past. Instead of fear, I attempt to approach everything with a deep love and understanding of the complexity of human nature. That doesn’t mean I don’t hold people accountable or that I don’t mess up along the way. I am human after all. But it is truly a never ending process and one that I feel much more comfortable wadding in.
But this is about transitions. I am once again at a crossroads. Its familiar face looks upon me with melancholy, but a hint of a smile tickles the edge of its lips. I look forward to the growth that it will afford me although I know that it will not be a painless path ahead.
I suppose I should end this with a brief story.
The other day, I was on a hike with a friend who I recently reconnected with. It was a familiar trail to me, but newer to her. As we shared updates on our lives, the earth swelled and contracted beneath our feet. Near the end, we paused to extend our conversation. The river rushed alongside us bringing soothing sounds to our ears. It was an unusually warm, sunny day in Ohio and the wind whipped through, rustling the trees. Suddenly, golden leaves burst forth like confetti. In that moment, the overwhelming sense of peace wrapped its arms around my heart. Nature always has a way of reaffirming to me that there is still magic, there is hope, even in transitions. And on the other side of winter, there is new life, new being waiting to emerge.
Bron
Podcast Referenced - On Being with Krista Tippett “We are in a Time of New Suns” featuring Adrienne Maree Brown
