“Autumn demands that I release what I think is important to do and returns me to the only thing which matters that I remember—to love and to allow love to sculpt me, even as it breaks my heart.” Christine Valters Paintner

Autumn. The closing of a year. The last burst of color and abundance as we slip into the quiet grace of winter. The days’ sunlight diminishes, welcoming me with gifts of shadow, dark, and rest.

As the sun wanes and leaves fall, bare trees stand, stark silhouettes in diminishing light. In summer, like the fully leafed trees, my life is crammed with activities, distractions, energy. As autumn descends, these distractions diminish. I am reminded of the bareness in my life; I don’t have eternal summer either. When I am less busy, it is harder to keep sorrows at bay. Former friends, past hurts, unresolved issues find a place in my ruminations. It is harder to resist knowing this precious life, too, will end.

November brings the reminder that life is full of endings—the last of migrating birds glean from empty farmlands, songbirds disappear from feeders, summer annuals’ dried remains linger in the garden. Endings.

This transition from abundance to quiet is not a move into scarcity, though it can feel that way. Rather it is a move toward simplicity. How might I reduce the distractions, remember what I value, focus on gratitude for the life I have?

November serves as a bridge from the high energy of summer to the quiet of winter. I look forward to the seclusion of a snowstorm, the solitude when temperatures turn frigid, the calm of fallow time. Late autumn is the liminal space that holds us for what comes next, even when we don’t have any idea what next might bring.

We all go through similar passages at various points in our lives. The transition from child to adult, single to partnered, parent to empty nest, employed to retired, married to widowed, illness to health, active addict to sobriety. We leave behind one way of life and embark on another, not sure how it will turn out. Not even sure if we want to go there.

This autumnal quiet time is perfect for taking a gratitude inventory, like a 10th step of the last year.In these transitions, losses loom large. I see in the diminishing light what is gone, what is dying, what was and is no longer. I cannot yet see what is to come.

I wonder if we do not need to sit in our Novembers for a while. We live in a culture where sorrow is not welcome. Change is suspect. The future needs to be glossy and inviting. We want to move on, but we may not be ready for what comes next. Not yet anyway. It is hard to feel sad. It is uncomfortable. Who wants to be uncomfortable? Yet, sorrow lingers after hurts, losses, disappointments. Suffering permeates life, the Buddhists remind us.

The question isn’t how to avoid the losses and sorrows, the question is how to be with them, engage them, learn what they have to teach.

Here are some things that help me. I spend time with the sorrow, feel it in my body, sit with it for a time. I might take an hour or a morning or days. I welcome it as a visitor, knowing it cannot become a permanent resident.

I hold it. Talk to it. Go on a walk with it. Name it. I journal about it. I notice how it feels in my body. My shoulder aches, my throat is dry, my heart beats fast. I picture it—a load of bricks, a dark veil, a whirling wind.

And then I let it go. That is enough for now. It may come back. Then I will welcome it again, for a time. Each time it returns I learn a little more. Each time it is a little easier to let go.

Finally, I move into gratitude. Not for the hurt or pain or sorrow, but for all the other blessings that fill my life. I recall the people I love, the beauty of the day, the amazement that I am alive.

This autumnal quiet time is perfect for taking a gratitude inventory, like a 10th step of the last year. I choose to look at what was life giving, at the joys and goodness of the year. For what am I most grateful? What do I appreciate as the year draws to a close? Eckhart Tolle says, “Acknowledging the good that you already have in your life is the foundation for all abundance.”

I can do this month by month, reviewing my calendar. Or I can look at my year in photos, noticing what delights me—a beautiful sunset, a heron rising from the water, a selfie with a dear friend.  I might sit quietly to notice what comes to mind—sorrows wrapped in loving memories, tears shared with a family member, music that echoed in my ears weeks after a concert, sacred time shared in community.

I recall encounters with seeming strangers who turned out to know someone I knew. I remember the excitement of being in a crowd with a shared experience. I recollect engaging conversations with colleagues.

I am grateful for necessary sorrows—remembering my brother who died this year, the joy of playing ping pong with him, and his delight in beating me even with his compromised health.

As I look back, I see a parade of images—people, places, and things that brought me delight.

I remember that this liminal time will end. Even in the dying of November, I trust in spring. This year I planted four dozen daffodil bulbs, I noticed the buds on the rhododendron, I tucked away lawn chairs, protecting them from winter’s harsh winds. I prepare for the renewal of spring.

There are no beginnings without endings. There are no endings without beginnings. May this liminal time be filled with graces for you and those you love.

Mary Lou Logsdon is a Spiritual Director in the Twin Cities. She teaches at Sacred Ground Spirituality Direction Training Program. She can be reached at Logsdon.marylou@gmail.com.

Last Updated on November 11, 2024