Living in the northeastern United States,
At the beginning of each autumn,
I'm always struck by the beautiful way the trees embrace their aging leaves,
Painting them glorious colors and tossing them to the wind like confetti.
But even though I find this dazzling display of color and surrender so inspiring,
There's also a part of me who bemoans it.
You see,
Summer is my favorite season.
There are few things that bring me more pleasure than the golden sun toasting my skin,
The heat literally and figuratively expanding the molecules around me.
Summer feels free,
Open,
Joyful.
Winter,
By comparison,
Feels rigid and desolate.
I don't like the cold.
A personal judgment,
Of course,
And a strong one at that.
Fall,
As lovely as it is for me,
Is a harbinger of the coming frost.
And so each fall,
I find myself caught in a contradiction of awe and resistance.
On one hand,
Shunning what I know is coming,
And on the other,
Envious of nature's ability to accept,
To flow seamlessly from one season to the next,
Not holding on to what used to be,
Unafraid of the changes ahead.
Nature does not grip.
It allows.
In the spring and summer,
Plants push their way through the surface of the soil and reach towards the sun.
They blossom in their own time,
Coaxed only by the natural rhythm of daylight and rain,
Warmth and patience.
And in the fall,
Just as effortlessly,
There's a gentle reversing,
A turning inward,
A letting go without hesitation,
A readying for the cocooning darkness of winter,
And an innate wisdom that the sun will come again,
In due time,
To draw the earth out of hibernation.
With each equinox,
There is a pivot,
A turning toward what is needed in the coming seasons.
And this is the crux of the lesson.
It's all needed.
The light and the dark,
The warmth and the cold,
The opening and the closing.
Through it all,
Nature finds equilibrium.
We often struggle to find this balance within ourselves,
But it's actually available to all of us at all times.
Our very breath mimics nature's turning.
With the in-breath,
Our bodies rise and expand,
And then,
Just beyond our awareness,
There is a tiny pause,
Our own personal turning before the settling and letting go of the out-breath.
And then,
Another tiny pause,
A pinpoint pivot,
Opening once again to the expansion of the next inhale.
A turn,
And then a return,
Over and over,
With each breath of our being,
Settling now into presence,
Breathing slowly and deeply,
But naturally,
Not forced or controlled,
Taking a moment to notice.
To notice the in-breath,
And noticing that pause at the top,
A turn before breathing out,
And then noticing the pause at the bottom of the breath,
A return to the rhythm of the inhale.
Breathing in,
Turn.
Breathing out,
Return.
Breathing in again.
As you continue to breathe,
You may silently say to yourself,
Breathing in,
Turn.
Breathing out,
Return.
Breathing in,
Turn.
Breathing out,
Return.
And when your mind wanders,
As minds do,
Just gently bringing your attention back,
Returning to the turns.
Breathing in,
Turn.
Breathing out,
Return.
As we prepare to end the meditation,
I invite you to consider all the pivots you make each day.
The transitions from being one way to another.
The big ones,
Like going from sleep to waking,
Or from home to work and back again.
And the less noticeable ones,
Like when you are gently pulled into a sweet memory,
And your mind shifts from the present to the past and back again.
Asking now,
Where can I bring awareness?
Softening,
Allowing to my personal turns and returns.
And if it resonates,
Maybe even setting the intention.
I invite acceptance and trust that nature so gracefully models.
The faith that each pivot brings me exactly where I need to be.
Breathing in,
Turn.
Breathing out,
Return.
Namaste.
