Autumn leaves

Ever since I moved to Holland, I have become disenchanted with autumn. Growing up in New England, autumn meant bright, fiery colors against a blue sky. Here, the leaves simply fall to the ground, heavy- laden with grey, cold rain. But this year, we’ve been treated to a blazing autumn and it has triggered musings about this very special season.

After the harvest abundance of the late summer, autumn is the time that trees and plants pull their energy back and down into their roots. And, because they have pulled their energy back, they let go their leaves. They no longer need the leaves, they’re going into hibernation.

For me, it’s also the season to pull back, out of the active summer. To go inside myself and reflect on the past year: the new impulses that came with spring, the fruits of the summer. What do I need to let go? What habits and thoughts no longer serve me? Autumn is a chance to rest and renew, a chance to simplify, to pare life down to only that which is essential. To let go of everything that clutters our lives and creates confusion. So that the bare branches of who we really are stand out in all their stark beauty. Waiting for new impulses and growth in the spring.

And, as the days grow shorter and colder and the light grows dimmer, we start creating light and warmth of our own. A few days ago, the Hindu celebration of Diwali took place, the festival celebrating the triumph of light over dark. Autumn brings us the light of warm fires blazing in the dark, warming and comforting us. Just as the autumn leaves give us one final blaze of warm, bright colors, before they flutter to the ground.

I wish you warm, bright, comforting fires. But most of all, I wish you the ability to let go that which no longer serves you, to simplify, rest, and renew.

Solitude

One of the things I love about White Storks is the fact that they are both social birds and solitary birds at the same time. They migrate and nest in groups and are often seen preening each other. But, when they’re hunting, they prefer to stand alone in a high place where they can oversee the territory.

I see myself reflected in this behavior. I’m a gregarious person and I enjoy working, playing, and carrying on conversations with other people. I love discovering how other people explore the world and lending a helping hand when they get stuck. But the times that I can return to my solitary space and be alone with my thoughts are the times that I become recharged and renewed.

This is not something that came easily. For a long time I lived in fear of being alone. And I think that many people know this fear. Being alone is often seen as synonymous with loneliness. And loneliness presupposes that one does not feel connected to other people. The fear of loneliness and isolation keeps us from enjoying solitude and it isn’t until we have been able to let go of that fear that it becomes enjoyable.

There’s another fear associated with solitude and that is far more instinctual, even primal. Homo sapiens learned at an early stage that safety was in numbers. Living in large family groups or tribes kept preying carnivores or marauding neighbors at bay. Even now, it is wise to consciously take measures to make sure that you are safe from harm, that you can reach someone in case of emergency, etc. if you’re planning to spend time alone. Last spring I did a three day wilderness solo. This primal fear of being alone and unsafe was one the strongest emotions that I had to deal with. I describe this in my blog Fear (May 20, 2014).

Last weekend I spent three days with several friends, basking in the warmth of our time together. It was a time of learning, a dance of delicate balances: consciously choosing when to go along with the group and when to listen to my own wants and needs. It was wonderful, warm, and easy to get accustomed to. However, as I drove home, I looked forward to easing back into my solitary life.

But the first 24 hours at home, I found myself slightly at loose ends. In three days, I had grown accustomed to people around me. I had to readjust to having no conversations, distractions, or empathy. And this led me to a third interesting aspect of solitude: there is a slightly addictive quality to having people around all the time. And so, if you are used to it, being alone feels uncomfortable. The way people, who have stopped smoking, feel uncomfortable without a cigarette. By recognizing this, I was able to let it go.

And what is your relationship to solitude? Do you enjoy it? Do you fear loneliness or feel unsafe? Are you so accustomed to having people around you that you feel uncomfortable alone? Please share your thoughts!

Despair

The newest WWF Living Planet Report gives reason for alarm. Within two generations, the population size of vertebrate species (other than human) has dropped by 52%. We need 1.5 Earths to regenerate the natural resources we currently use. Reading these hard facts, it is very difficult not to despair. My cognitive brain refuses to see a solution that will work fast enough to keep the human race, my human race, from destroying life on this planet, including our own lives. Not in my lifetime, perhaps, but I want my grandchildren and their grandchildren to live and enjoy the beauty of life on earth as much as I do.

I try to push that feeling of despair away. I like to be as positive and solution-oriented as possible. Despair immobilizes me, saps my energy. So I think of all the large and small-scale successes we have had in re-wilding parts of nature, bringing back species that were seriously endangered. I read about new initiatives, working with multinational businesses to find innovative solutions. I look for ways to raise awareness of the problem and to help people find their own answers. But the sheer numbers are overwhelming and I do feel pain, anger, and despair.

Yes, we should acknowledge that feeling of despair, says Joanna Macy in her book Active Hope. Only by honoring our pain for the world, will we be capable of breaking the spell of business as usual.

And so the challenge emerges: where to find the balance between honoring the pain and despair and letting it drag us into depression, futile anger, or stubborn denial.

Despair can also rise on an individual level. I worked with a client recently whose entire life had collapsed around his ears: his job gone, his marriage falling apart, his health threatened. And it seemed to me that the first step was to acknowledge the intense despair that he felt, acknowledge that feeling that nothing made sense any more. Feeling the pain instead of trying to escape from it through cognitive reasoning, hard work, or spiritual approaches emphasizing peace of mind.

Pain, grief, and sorrow are a gateway to empowerment, to finding new depths and new horizons in yourself. For my client, it meant accepting that this crisis in his life would bring him closer to the essence of who he is and what his life is about.

In the legend of Pandora’s Box, she opened the box, in spite of being warned not to. All the misfortune, wickedness, sickness, and terror was released into the world. But at the bottom of the box lay Hope. If the box had never been opened, Hope would not have found its way into the world.

And so I honor my pain and despair for the world. And, by doing so, I find new empowerment, hope, and energy to do all that I can to help.