Precious Autumn

“I cannot endure to waste anything as precious as autumn sunshine by staying in the house. So I spend almost all the daylight hours in the open air.” Nathaniel Hawthorne

This week’s spiritual practice is to pause, notice, open to the beauty of autumn.  Last week there were some glorious fall days with azure skies and tangerine leaves, leaving me amazed and delighted as I walked the dog.  It was impossible not to see the intense colours, so strong and alive in the sunlight.

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Pause, Notice, Open is a simple practice that brings us into the moment.

Go out for a walk around your neighbourhood or a local park, during the day, in sunshine or not.

Pause, breath slowly and deeply.  Check in with yourself, stretch and relax. Shake out your body. Re-direct your thoughts to the present. How are you feeling? Take a few moments to sit with what ever emotion you might be experiencing.

Notice, after checking in with yourself, look outwards.  Look at the vegetation around you, at the trees and shrubs, even down at the ground. Try to keep your eyes “soft”, let your eyes roam about you and then return to whatever tree or shrub captures your attention.  Look more closely, study the leaves, look at the light.  Move around to see the tree from different angles. Take photos if it helps you focus.

Open:  Once you’re satisfied with the looking, stand still and breath deeply.  Look a little more, take the experience into your body, and offer some gratitude out in return – to the trees, to life, to God, whatever works for you.  Then take one more slow, deep breath and return to your walk.

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For Life and Death are One

“For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.”
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet.

I first posted this video in the spring a couple of years ago. I’m posting it again in recognition of the upcoming Honouring Loss service this Sunday at the Unitarian Congregation in Mississauga. A visual poem about the inseparable nature of life and death, it speaks to the Unitarian Universalist sense that death is part of the natural cycle, to be grieved over but not denied. Life crumbles into decay and composts into new life, over and over and over again.

Hatching the Wondrous

But when we begin to tell stories,

our imagination begins to flow out through our eyes and our ears to inhabit the breathing earth once again.

Suddenly, the trees along the street are looking at us,

and the clouds crouch low over the city as though they are trying to hatch something wondrous.

We find ourselves back inside the same world that the squirrels and the spiders inhabit,

along with the deer stealthily munching the last plants in our garden,

and the wild geese honking overhead as they flap south for the winter.

Linear time falls away, and we find ourselves held, once again, in the vast cycles of the cosmos —

the round dance of the seasons,

the sun climbing out of the ground each morning and slipping down into the earth every evening,

the opening and closing of the lunar eye whose full gaze attracts the tidal waters within and all around us.

David Abram  excerpt from Storytelling and Wonder