The last few days, it is not just the fresh air, but also the cooler air that is doing me good. Each morning as my coffee brews, I open the windows and the back door. It’s wonderful to have the air conditioning off. The feel of the breeze. The smell of grass and overnight rain. The sounds of birds and dogs and neighbors. The look on the trees and reflections in the glass. Bacon frying so close I can almost taste it.
Taking July off to rest was like a whole month of fresh air. Noticing different things and noticing things differently. Now with August coming to an end, I’m noticing my attention shift. I’m looking ahead to September…with a different expectation.
The fall has always been hard for me. I no longer want to spend energy denying it and instead put my energy into not being overcome by it. The changing colors bring memories back to life. The fluctuating temperatures draw grief to the surface. The lessening sunlight awakens shadows that never fully fade.
This morning, walking along the river in joggers and long sleeves my cheeks a little chilly, I asked August for guidance. With your remaining days, tell me what lessons you still have to offer?
August pointed me back to a book I finished reading many months ago, Everything is a Story: Reclaiming the Power of Stories to Heal and Shape our Lives by Kaitlin B. Curtice. I am deeply drawn to her words and her wisdom. In a chapter titled “Stories Are Labels” she suggests that slowing down and letting go of labels that no longer serve us is a way to honor the elders and prepare ourselves for coming seasons.
I once labeled myself by experiences I had in seasons of fall. The fall I watched someone slowly die. The falls I thought I wanted to die too. And all the Septembers and Octobers I almost didn’t survive. For the last decade or so, I’ve been embracing fall for what it is. Endeavoring to model the trees in their annual process of letting go. Not refusing change, but studying it. Not resisting transformation, but getting curious about it. Not treating seasons as labels, but as pieces of a story. Some years I’ve been better at this than others, but I’ve not stopped trying.
Healing does not require we forget the site of the wound. Healing call us to be sensitive to where it hurts. To be tender and gentle with new skin. Healing is not the death of what harmed us, just as shedding leaves is not the death of the tree. Healing, like abscission is a process. Not every leaf drops by a certain date and not every trauma in our body is released in a particular frame of time. Some dropping, some releasing takes more than one cycle.
I’m not rushing away August. Or wanting September to arrive early. But I am preparing for the possibilities that await. Creating space. Adjusting my rhythms. Opening my heart and the windows. Tuning all five senses. Caring for what shows up. Honoring what fades away. Tracking what does not return. Drafting a plan for navigating aches and pain without fear and shame. Making lists of places to visit in my dreams and on weekend road trips. Choosing a notebook only for writing down goodness the fresh air brings.
Curtice ends that chapter with a poem (that interestingly does not have a title/label). The final stanza reads,
Ready yourself for tomorrow.
The season will come as it should,
the world bringing you into
sacred, tender orbit, all things
ready to cycle forward. (Chapter 13)
I’m trusting this is true.
Invitation to Reflect
How are you getting ready for a change of season?
What lessons have you learned from August?
Will they influence the ways you welcome September?
When is the last time you got a bit of fresh air?
What good did it do you?
Water-fully and curiously yours, Rebecca
I’m ready for September. Fall is my favorite season in Michigan. I want to be open to what lies ahead. Your words help me to ponder and reflect. “ Healing call us to be sensitive to where it hurts. To be tender and gentle with new skin.”
Thank you.