So the Light Gets In
“The tired sameness of September’s deep green fades then flames into October’s vermilion sumacs and scarlet maples, lemon-yellow poplars and golden hickories.
In those days of crispness I want to linger long enough to hear every sound and look far enough to see into forever.
”
Autumn is different in Southern California.
Having grown up experiencing the steady arrival of crisp air that grips your lungs and shocks your summer-wearied mind awake, the slow and stumbling march from brutal heat to temperate “I could use a sweater” negotiations is still a transition which gives me pause. As we’ve marked together the turning of the season after months of pandemic-driven uncertainty, that pause has been more welcome than ever.
Even as the ecological realities of climate change wreak havoc on our environment, the world turns, seasons mark their entry and exit in subtle or brilliant shifts, and we as Anthropocene voyeurs to this cosmic, universal progression, bear witness. Amidst chaos and division, dispute and dereliction, our world presses on in the sacred practice of its grand patterns.
As a favorite essayist explains:
“Wedged between an equinox and a solstice, [Autumn] moors us to cosmic rhythms of deep time and at the same time envelops us in the palpable immediacy of its warm afternoon breeze, its evening chill, its unmistakable scentscape. It is a season considered temperate, but one often tempestuous in its sudden storms and ecstatic echoes of summer heat. We call it “fall” with the wistfulness of loss as we watch leaves and ripe fruit drop to the ground, but it is also the season of abundance, of labor coming to fruition in harvest.”
The fall of leaves is the image we most often associate with Autumn. We think of the bright blaze of oranges and reds, yellows and browns. Of course, the impending rush of bare branches swiftly recalls the coming winter and the harsh press of its pale bone chill. Yet, I’ve been reminded in this shifting season of why those leaves fall. The world, preparing for the coming cold, signals its benevolence in the drifting descent of each faded leaf. The tree sheds all that it does not need in preparation for winter. In doing so, it allows the sun to slip more easily through its twisted fingers to bless all that had so recently huddled in its shade.
To butcher a timeless verse from Leonard Cohen: That openness is how the light gets in.
Autumn is a special time. It’s a time of renewal, of rest, of unburdening, and of abundance. It’s a time for opening to new light.
As I consider all of the ways that I need Fall’s renewal, it’s call for openness to usher in abundance, I feel God’s presence in the crisp air.
I see God late at night in the negative space between an old oak's leaves; Little glimpses of the sky's cold glow, stark against warm, inky silhouettes and they whisper that there is more. I close my eyes tight when I see it. Allow the face of God to imprint itself onto the back of my eyelids so I can carry Her around. The theologians tell us God is in our hearts or etched somewhere in our bones but on a fresh Autumn night, that's all just romantic frivolity.
God's there between the turning leaves and sometimes pressed close against my eyeballs. God's waiting to be plucked like a dandelion or stolen like a wistful glance or welcomed like a leaf falling gracefully from a tree.
I hear God in the grating chorus of crickets down by the creek. God doesn't say much that I can understand but it's nice to hear Her voice anyway. I listen close sometimes in the hush of a still-warm afternoon and hear nothing at all. Then all at once as the sun goes brushed gold against the hills God's laughing and shouting until you can’t shut Her up.
I sit and listen but never remember what is said. It's enough just to have heard.
I feel God in the dewy grass on a Fall evening. A bit uncomfortable and unbidden but beautiful nonetheless in the way She makes you feel fully there and awake and alive. All soft and soaking you to your bones but gentle. God just sort of sits with you and seeps in through your clothes till She's sitting next to your skin and you close your eyes and there She is staring back at you and you hear the jangly sort of tinkle of Her voice grow louder in your ears.
This Autumn, may our branches be bared in a sacred act of renewal. May we set aside those things we no longer need (at least for now) so that the light gets in.
// Paz
Payton