AUTUMN-WINTER

I love the changing of the seasons.

Especially the ones in me.

Having recently returned from a trip to the north I am in a practical way reminded of how much I love the changing of the seasons. I have a particular fondness for autumn, and so I was thrilled to experience the array of vibrant colors as the leaves begin their inevitable descent. The air was at times chilly, and in the morning hours out and out cold. I could feel the transitioning of autumn into winter, and the blurring that was still teasing.

As I beheld the colors and embodied the chill I pondered if I myself have moved fully beyond the blur.

Do I have any internal autumn remaining, or am I fully ensconced in the winter of my living?

While to some readers that may seem an irrelevant question, I deeply appreciate the inquiry.

I have lived in the tropics for over twenty-five years. While there are seasonal changes in this part of the world, they are decidedly subtle. I have grown to notice them more readily over the years. Having been reared in the north there has always been something dystonic about this climate. It has always and continues to feel out of my natural rhythm. While I appreciate the subtle changes, I greatly prefer more dramatic shifts. Chilly and subtle leave me wanting. At least in terms of prolonged experience. I even love the extended period when the trees are bare and brittle with the cold. I can always feel an emergent animation beneath the barren appearances. I know that in a time the brittleness will give way to bud, and bud to flowering. It is a thrilling emergence.

I was born on an Easter Sunday. I am a spring baby. In my youth I could not wait to get out of the emerging spring and into the full out expression of summer. I wanted the summer to never end. Ease of action and expression for me seemed the epitome of life living itself full out as me. So fixated was I on youth, freedom, action, and adventure that I barely noticed the fall season that was beginning to settle in. Truth be told I did not notice my internal autumn until I was fully in it and it was fully in me.

In my noticing I began to appreciate that my seeming ever-greening leaves were being replaced by fiery, passionate, vivid colors. As much as I had identified with my summer ardor it was being replaced by an even greater splendor. Though having been born originally in the spring a rebirth was occurring during the autumnal season of my living. Something quite unexpected was happening. Though I had wanted to prolong my summer experience at any cost I was finding that it paled in comparison to the blaze of my fall.

Something else amazing was happening. Even as I relished the embracing of a latter season, I was not clinging to autumn the way I had to summer. I intuitively knew that this autumn of life would inevitably lead me to the winter of my experiencing. My vibrant colors would begin to fade. The leaves of my fullest glory would soon begin to literally fall. What was so amazing was that I was devoid of any fear or any notion that the final turning should somehow not occur. I had my spring. I seized my summer. I blazed as autumn. And soon I would be finalizing as winter.

Rereading that last paragraph, I question and smile at my own framing.

I feel with a serene certainty that I have already entered the winter of my incarnation. That does not mean that I have no vibrancy or passion left. I am not ready to go completely within. I am cooler, yet I am not frozen. I am slower, yet I am still moving. There is more subtlety and there is ample life remaining in my undeniable seniority. It is perhaps late in my incarnation, yet the lights are still on. I am at a place now where I have experienced and can now describe the spring, the summer, the autumn of my human adventure. And I have never been more awake to my seasonal nature. I have never been less resistant to being exactly where I am with no longing to be somewhere else.

I have known the curiosity and wonder of spring.

I have known the enthusiastic full out expression of summer.

I have relished the passion and vibrancy of autumn.

And I coming to know and to love the contemplative presence of winter. The lesser doing in order to more fully be. The cool that only comes from knowing that all things will indeed pass. Including youth.

So, while I remain living in the tropics I mostly dwell in the full spectrum of my seasonal nature. I am content to know that I arrived in spring. That I had my summer. That I harvested my autumn. “Been there, done that” as the saying goes. And now I am fully engaged in living my winter.

I have lived my entire life from a perspective that I did not want to miss anything. Yet for much of that lifetime I did not want to find myself in winter. I did not want to wake up one day and find that I was old. There is a subtle denial of life in that perspective. I have been young. I have been middle age. And now I get to try out the venture of being a senior citizen.

How cool is that?

As cool as winter, my friends. As cool as winter.

I love the changing of the seasons.

Especially the ones in me.

A BLANK PAGE

I have grown to love the challenge of a blank page.

I do not and have never claimed to be a great writer. I write because there is an impulse deep within me that is always seeking expression. I write because I love to write. I go through periods where I write pretty consistently. I feel a stirring in my being, and I begin to ponder what is seeking to be put into words. I open a Word document. I look at the blank page before me. And I wait until I feel an impulse to begin typing. Sometimes the blank page feels like an open invitation for creative word play. And sometimes the blank page feels like it is mocking me. It seems to dare me to come up with something that is worthy of filling the space. And on rare occasions it seems to be a bit of both. And so, there are times when I take a break from the challenge and take solace in refraining from the invocation of a blank page.

And so, while I truly have grown to love the challenge of a blank page, I guess I also fear it to some degree as well. The blank page beseeches me to improve upon its pristine emptiness. The blank space is a gauntlet of sorts. My creative muse urges me on, while at the same time my inner critic lies and lurks in wait. If I allow the bulk of my focus to stay steeped in the creative process, I love filling the blank page with playful images and inspired ideas. I follow the leading of where my musings seek to go, with little thought of what the finished product might look and read like. I am always surprised at the unexpected twists and turns of my adventures upon the page. Where I think I may be headed is most often not where I actually land. That is a huge part of the fun for me. It is what makes the blank page a space I love to face.

If I approach the blank page with a sense of what I think should be an accepted finished product the joy is sucked right out of the process. Each word feels laborious and nagging. I can become fixated on the evaluations that are always a part of how creative endeavors are received. Rather than filling the page for the joy of simply filling the page I can get pulled into imagining how my writings will be read and critiqued. The process takes on a weight. My energy droops. My creativity falters. Process is consumed by product. The temptation is to delete the words I have rumbled with and to return to the scrutiny free blank page. It may result in being unfulfilled, but it also means I am unjudged.

Everyday is in fact a blank page.

I am invited into loving the challenge of filling the blank page that is this day. It is a very similar process. It is really all in the approach. If I remain alert and playful, focused on the creativity and the process I flow with the day and what I choose to place upon my page. I can witness and yet not heed the well-rehearsed inner critic that is ever ready to judge what is occurring. I stay centered in process and not upon product. I create for the sake of creating. I listen and give way to what is seeking to be expressed. I do not give sway to what I perceive to be other peoples criticisms of how I am living and expressing. I simply fill my day-page with inspired acts and playful creations. There will be times when I feel stuck. Lodged. When the next right word seems to illude me. And so, I do what I do when I am writing and I hit a snag. I pause. I breathe. I listen within. I let whatever is waiting beneath to rise and to come forth. I do so in trust and in expectancy.

I do not know how many remaining blank pages await my creative fulfillment. That makes each one more vital and more precious. I literally have today and only today. How I choose to fill it is totally and completely up to me. I have lived long enough to know how not to fall into the trap of being governed by the expectations or judgments of those around me. They have their own pages to fill. Rather than waste my energy in fear and resistance I stay focused in my own acts of creation. I intend that the way I live my days will be beneficial to others. That how I use my blank pages will serve and uplift the world around me. That my living will be about something greater than just me.

I giggle with the awareness that this is not the rendering that I set out to formulate when I began to fill this once blank page. This is not what I set out to say. And yet these are the words that came forth. This is how I filled this space. And so, beyond any projected evaluation, I am content in knowing that I followed my cues. That I dictated the words that sought to come forth. That I filled the blank page with words and ideas that matched the moments of my musing.

I wrote simply for the love of writing.

And tomorrow there will be another blank page and another opportunity to create anew. There is always a chance to begin again. No matter how many and how I may have filled previous pages a new blank page appears before me. As long as there are additional pages there are additional opportunities. There are new pages to fill and new stories to tell.

It is why I grown to love the challenge of a blank page.