My meditation cushion sits before a tall rectangle of a window that stretches from floor to sloped ceiling in my upstairs office. Here I sit through all kinds of outer and inner weather, usually in silence, occasionally in song.
In this morning’s meditation, my eyes open of their own accord to an autumn scene. A wind has come up, and I watch as a backyard elm offers its leaves, sunlight shining golden through them, to the breeze. I watch for a few moments as leaves swirl to the ground, and then close my eyes once more. The tree stays with me, though, offering itself as teacher.
Thoughts arrive, but they are leaves to me now, and I give them to the larger current. Until I find myself roughing out a mental draft of this blogpost, with autumn tree as metaphor. I stop, allowing that collection of words to drift to the ground, as I open again to that vivifying force that fuels both my life and the elm’s. I settle back into stillness.
And then I wonder what I’ll make for dinner. After some brief menu planning, that topic too drifts away. Anxiety for the condition of our world comes next. After getting snagged by this one for a few long moments, I remember the tree and let go again. Then a client appears, one whose pain is sharp and biting. After offering this woman to unseen, benevolent others for holding and blessing, I release again. And so it goes, one thought or image or feeling after another.
One common misconception about meditation is that it is a time when one’s mind is devoid of thoughts. In reality, minds are seldom empty for long. In meditation, we simply practice letting our thoughts drop away, like leaves in autumn. In this way, we hope to learn to let go of things, both small and large, as life requires, and to do so with grace.
Gradually we come to trust that, beneath it all, a stillness abides. Like the tree who knows itself anchored in the sweet, life~giving Earth, again and again we learn that we too are anchored in that which endures, in that which sustains.
Is it really so easy for trees to let go of what has already served its function, or do they hold on tenaciously until they can hold on no longer? Perhaps all living things stand at the divide between clinging to and letting go. But that is a thought to savor for a while and then let drift away, too. For no matter the inner experience of elm or aspen, oak or maple, through these trees, autumn offers lessons of release.
May we, like our tree kin, generate with our whole being the foliage that is our life. And then when the time is right, may we release those leaves, returning them to that larger current that holds us all.
Blessings on all your leaves...as they unfurl and as they drift to the ground.
