I was driving to work today
and at first sank into the gloom of the gray day. Forty degrees, damp, bare
branches dripping icy water, the shhhhh of the spray under the
tires.
News, the traffic report
murmured on the radio. Then I saw it. Along the busy Interstate 5 corridor,
in a stark, leafless tree was a nest.
Had it not been winter and
the tree bare, I would not have seen it - this remnant of spring where small
birds came to life. Similarly, if our lives are too cluttered, too busy - even
with abundant blessings - we may miss the most important of God's
messages: That the starkness of the
season is a necessary means to new life and that
through death we are
born again; dark days will become lighter; a troubled world will be illuminated
by a holy child.
There have been many legends
surrounding Christmas. Birds are thought to be messengers of God's love. And
bird nests have been a symbol of luck as well as of home and nurturing. Today,
the common nest
has woven its way into our language to become synonymous with nurture.
We speak of nesting when we
clean our houses, decorate and prepare an environment for nurturing, becoming
cozy in our surroundings, fluffing the covers around us to settle in, drawing
others to us to care for them in our nest as well.
What better time, than in
this winter season, to focus on our nests. Do we create nests where we can
spiritually grow? Have we set aside time for ourselves, a place for prayer and
meditation? Have we created a place free from emotional clutter where we
can feel love and give love and become whole?
I looked out my upstairs window this morning and gazed down into a cluster of gold and bronze vine-maple leaves. Of course, I didn't need to see the color to know fall was here. It had been slipping in gradually since late August: The shadows of afternoon grew longer with the angle of the sun and mornings came with a faint chill.
An early September hike on Washington State's Mount Rainier turned up sun-basking, whistling marmots already wearing white, winter coats, although few leaves had begun to change.
Now that it's October, I miss summer's long days of light. I understand how many can suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, a depression attributed to less sunlight. In years past, I've suffered from it too. Since then, I've adjusted my attitude toward fall and many things - a fear of change, being one.
The autumnal changes - leaves floating like golden birds, fallen apples turning cidery in the compost bin -- are just the slow transformation that is a natural part of life. It's a time to slow down from summer and reflect. It's part of being alive and life is never static. When I'm outdoors, I'm most aware of being one with God's universe. I bend with the seasons, breathe in life.
When I was a child, all the coming of autumn meant was a new beginning - a new school year, new adventures, new clothes, new things to learn, new and old friends to greet, new possibilities unfolding.
I have learned through the years that there is no better time for change than the present, no better time to be happy and grateful, no better time to ask for guidance and give up struggling alone.
With the bitter-sweetness of fall -- the death of annuals, decaying leaves -- fall reminds us to consider changes we need to make, chances we need to take, bridges we need to build over canyons of hard feelings. One wonderful change for me this fall is sharing my thoughts here on this Web site. It's a privilege to be with you on the garden path.