An Autumn Rest Note on grief, love, and the wonder of what lives inside.
I'm walking along a path on an autumn November day. All the leaves have fallen, leaving the trees bare and revealing the in-between spaces. I can now see the sun shining through, a nest in a tree, and I seek for little gifts left behind by animals or shamans.
I come upon the remains of a dead tree. Logs, trunk, roots.
I approach with curiosity.
What lives here? I wonder.
Perhaps an animal makes this its home. Fungi and mushrooms, a bird, or fairies, perhaps. I'm looking for some material evidence of existence amongst the compost.
As I come closer, the rotting and composting material leads me to something most unexpected.
A physical sensation deep in my heart and throat.
And I have a sudden realization.
"Oh." I say out load.
"It's grief."
I don't know where it's coming from, but those decaying tree remains mirror something within me. And put a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.
It's a brief moment of reverence and stillness.
I'm witnessing what once was, what is no longer, and what remains in that space in between.
The sensation of grief.
I continue on my walk, partly so I won't be observed by a passing walker, because the moment feels so exposed and sacred.
And as I walk, I think, Wow, grief lives here.
I find my hand rising to my heart.
A flood of all the things I must have been holding. Through busy days and minimal space to sit in stillness and notice. The lack of ritual and exhale to honor things that come and go, or reckon and release what should have been and never came about.
They come welling up.
And as I walk, I ask the question again, with curiosity.
What lives here?
What lives here inside grief? What makes its home in this pain?
And then, like a burst of sunlight through the bare trees, except this is all somatic for me, the answer arrives.
LOVE.
Love lives here.
Love lives inside the grief. Love resides beneath the pain.
Love that some say has nowhere to go now, or was unfinished, or love disappointed, perhaps.
But anyway. There it is.
And there it always is, isn't it?
When we least expect it or look for it, but bursting into our awareness when we finally arrive at that space of stillness, curiosity, and wonder.
…
I think a lot about that day, that moment. And the phrase, grief lives here.
That gives the impression that grief lives. It's alive. It has prana, or Qi.
And that makes it something we can touch, listen to, learn from and nurture.
A Seasonal Reflection for You
As the leaves have dropped, the days grow darker, and the body calls for stillness despite the daily demands we've created or that are placed upon us.
As the trees become a little more bare, the mist hovers over the river, and the fallen logs reveal their holes, crevices, and decaying parts for critters to make a home or find nourishment.
I invite you to find a place in your body that holds tension.
You'll know the one.
Place your hands gently here, with compassion and warmth.
Settle.
Become still.
Breathe.
And listen.
What lives here?
And rest long enough for, perhaps, an answer to emerge.
Meet whatever is there with space, gentleness, and compassion. The grief, the love, all the in-betweens.
A quote from our Restoring Peace Through Yin series:
"People travel to wonder at the height of mountains, at the huge waves of the seas, at the long course of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars, and yet they pass by themselves without wondering."
— Saint Augustine
You are WONDERful, and I wish you a WONDER-filled November.
Namaste,
Kinzie
