The Autumn Garden

I was recently walking in a perfectly manicured September garden. Summer blooms had been replaced by the more humble offerings of fall and the garden had a sparseness and simplicity that took my breath away. I've always loved the magnificent abundance of the Fall: the harvest, the foliage, the moon. This year though, I'm experiencing Fall through different eyes: autumn eyes. Eyes that seek out spaciousness and simplicity; eyes that find comfort in brown grass dying back down into the earth. There is a softness to the autumn garden I've not seen before. And a silence that roars in my heart.

The silence speaks its own special language, pulling me deep inside myself. Absorbing me in that inner sense of knowing. This listening to silence has a fierceness to it. It moves me into unexpected places, pushing me up against notions of who I am and why I'm here. It laughs at me too, testing my trust in myself. Am I willing to rest in the air of my being. Am I really okay with how fluid the ground I want so solid beneath me truly is. Can I sit still, can I wait, can I look and see what is, rather than what I want it to be.