It is the season of letting go.
Green makes way for red and gold.
Winds blow with fierce intention
and what once held strong
now releases its grip on limb and bough.

These words began a piece I wrote for a collection of prayers, poems and reflections for a book entitled Autumn printed by the Iona Community’s Wild Goose Press. The writings would most likely be used by those preparing worship services but the invitation to reflect on the gifts of this season in which we now find ourselves reminded. me once again of the wisdom of the rhythms of Creation. This time of the year which we call ‘fall’ confronts us with the lessons of letting go, of slowing down, of being present to our own mortality. As I write this the leaves are dropping from a maple tree I have concerns about…its leaves have turned prematurely brown and an arborist has instructed me to watch it, to water it and to wait until spring to see if the summer’s drought has injured it and nothing more. Like with many of life’s circumstances, only time will tell.

It is the season of slowing down,
of remembering the bud and seed,
of measured light, dying beams,
slanting across the changing rhythm of our days.

Darkness is now coming earlier in the evenings and exiting later in the mornings. This change in light can bring on a melancholy, our bodies seem to need the light to propel ourselves off the mattress. Having been a morning person most of my adult life, I find the darkness something to grapple with, something to hold gently as my own rhythms shift and become accustomed to this shadowed beginning to the day. I have to remind myself of all the good things that come from darkness: babies in the womb, bulbs that will bloom from dark soil, stars that can only be seen on a background of blackened sky.

It is the season of returning,
falling back to the earth,
to the life that quivered in summer breezes,
to the energy that shone sun onto our upturned faces.

Endings are always difficult. Summer’s end carries the memory of color that arrived after winter’s white and spring’s promise only to burst into greens and reds and brilliant yellows with summer’s arrival. This circular movement reminds us of the cycle of birth, life, and death that exists in the Universe, a cycle of which we are all a part. How to rest in that wisdom and allow our bodies to settle in it? It is the always present call offered to us if we choose to listen, if we choose to stay awake. 

Creator of all seasons, enfold us in the wisdom of letting go.
Infuse us with the breath of slowing down.
Guide us in the dance of returning
as we rest and renew in this most holy season.

May this day find each of us looking up to the trees that want to teach us. May we spend time watching a leaf as it falls to its resting place. May we notice the skies in their brilliant blue as they make a home for fluffy, white clouds and birds in V-formation heading to their winter home. May we await the darkness with gratitude for all it houses. May we know the gift of letting go. 

It is the music that undoes me. Almost as soon as it begins, I feel the tears pooling in my eyes while my throat tightens with that overwhelming desire to fight off the emotion. Why do I bother? I look around and see that I am not alone. As someone who has logged more hours in church that I care to admit, the return of being with others in what is called worship still draws me in while holding an ambiguous feeling. Even though the services I attend are held outside and some of us are wearing masks, the experience is still held in that gray area of the unknown. The spoken words are mostly familiar and the rhythm of the liturgy is there and yet…we know that something has changed in how we come together. And we don’t know what it all means for how we will move into a future that holds both the ‘way we were’ and the ‘who we will become.’ It is probably true for schools and work settings, for sports teams and card clubs, any place where two or more are gathered.  Many of us find ourselves in this tenuous place that has not yet formed, caught in the in-between. And that in-between place carries so much that is unknown and also so important.

But the music. In the first in-person time of worship I attended on the lawn of the church, the service began with singing “Morning Has Broken”, a simple tune with words planted inside me from camps long ago. Through my masked face, I did not get more than a few words out until the tears started to fall. Finally, I gave up singing and just let the music wash over me, allowing the place where the tune first entered me to be stroked with memory, gentleness and healing. Yesterday, the opening song was “There Is a Balm in Gilead” and the same thing happened. I was reaching for a tissue when I noticed the young woman sitting near me wipe an errant tear from her cheek before it could be caught in the cotton of her mask. “There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole”…may it be so. I managed to make it through more of this tune than I did on that earlier Sunday which I am counting as a win. Perhaps by Christmas, I will be able to get through a whole, tearless song but I am not holding my breath. Perhaps by Christmas, we will be able to safely meet in the sanctuary. Again, no breath is being held. Mostly, I am simply thankful for the care and caution exhibited by those planning for these important times, for the ways in which they have taken into account those who are most vulnerable, the oldest and the youngest among us.

These tearful musical experiences have had me thinking about the role that music plays in our lives. As a former middle school music teacher, I remember realizing how music became that place of identity during those precious, often painful years. The music listened to during adolescence bores into some cell deep place and defines who we are, what we hope to become. How many of us remember certain songs when we drive past a particular place or down a certain street? As we get older our music palette may change but those initial songs we could sing by heart, over and over, are within us and we can’t escape their presence. The words and tunes told of our longings, our dreams, our hopes, our fears. For those of us who still listen to a lot of music, the same can be said. There are certain songs and those who perform those songs, that create the soundtrack for our days saying things we might not be able to say for ourselves.

Yesterday’s service contained a song that was new to me, by Sara Bareilles.  As the young woman began to sing this tune called ‘Brave’, the tears once again welled up in my eyes. The lyrics urged the hearer to ‘show how big your brave is’. The last months have required much of us all. Compassion. Empathy. Isolation. Caution. Patience. Discernment. Intelligence. Creativity. Perseverance. Resilience. All these and so much more. And also, I suppose, I certain kind of bravery. The next months may ask more of the same. Bravery comes in many forms and, hopefully, we will all have the wherewithal to show how big our brave is. While we’re at it, may we be surrounded by music that lifts us up, fortifies us and brings us to tears. 

Here’s a link to the song. You’ll need to skip through the ad. Enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUQsqBqxoR4