Release (Meb)

         As I look outside my window to the open space beyond my house, I see Autumn in her reds, greens, golds and oranges. The wind catches the falling leaves and they fly across the sky, the last "Hurrah!" of the season.

          The tree beyond my fence is almost bare, her foliage in drifts at her feet. Standing tall, there's a sense of release about her. Uncluttered, there is clarity. I can see just who she is; the outline of limbs and branches are artfully formed, perfect and unique to her.

          In my garden, Autumn is a time of letting go and paradoxically, of bringing in and harvesting. Autumn is the last exhale before the pause of Winter, before the silent waiting, before the exuberant inhale that is the rejuvenation of Spring. I have always loved Autumn.

          What am I harvesting now in my own life? What do I need to let go of?

          In The Miracle Chase, I talk about how I believed that our family's Miracle meant there would be a "happy ending." I could see a direct connection between Liz's survival and how she touched and inspired so many with her response to life, how my work to protect children resulted in programs and organizations that strengthened families. I thought our family would survive, too. When it did not, when discouragement and divorce, illness, death and day-to-day challenges crept in and over my idea of how it would all turn out, it was hard to see where the Miracle was taking us. But at this stage in my life, I am beginning to understand that my desires, my dreams for my family and my own happiness - what I thought would be a happy ending - might not be connected to God's desires for me. Letting go of that ending allows me to think about the next season of my life. I notice how many of my personal dreams have languished, like the last fruit on the tree, unpicked, unharvested. What do I make of these dreams? Do I let them go?
 

          I admire and treasure my daughter and pay attention when she (rarely) shares her thoughts about my "Being-ness." She thinks I have an absolute talent for denial and a capacity to accept and tolerate the unacceptable. Lately, in part because of a shift in our relationship, through her eyes, I let myself see more of the woman I am. As the oranges, golds, reds and greens of old dreams and desires fall away, I see more of my true Self. I look at the old versions of happy endings and wonder, if in my desire to be everything to everyone, I painted a picture of my nature, instead of living out my True Nature.

          As a believer and an optimist, I ask myself, "Isn't it true that we don't know how God works in our life until we look back on the evidence after the fact?" From today's vantage point, the hand of God is visible, guiding and caring for me over time, stripping me of what is nonessential, taking me on a journey of  trust where clearly I have no map, no compass, no GPS and most certainly, no YELP. I feel naked and bare, exposed like the tree whose leaves have fallen at her feet. I am humble before this God.

          Many Christians say that God has a plan. I confess that I would like to believe this is the way the world works and certainly would like to know what God's plan is for me. Wouldn't you? Still, the concept bothers me. I wonder at the idea of a plan where so many suffer. Also, I confess that  I am impatient, that I have always been impatient. (I often read the last chapter of a book when the story is particularly suspenseful.) God's timing, the unfolding of "The Plan," the unfolding of my Self for that matter, has been a great source of discomfort, maybe even fear.

          Sometimes, when I pray for the road map, God seems silent, distant. I continue to pray for what I think I want and need, even as I understand that Prayer, itself, isn't a bargaining tool with God or a prepayment on goods, or a panacea for hopeless cases, or some chit in the heavenly savings account. Rabbi Morris Adler says, "Prayers are answered not when we are given what we ask for, but when we are challenged to be what we can be." If this is true, then I better not be a passive person in my own life story. While I might want to be like that beautiful tomato in my garden, hanging on, just trying to ripen over time, as a human being, more is expected of me. ARRGH!

          Sometimes a miracle is found in a series of coincidences. It was one of these cascading, synchronistic miracles that occurred when Joan (who doesn't really even like poetry) forwarded a poem from a friend who received it to commemorate the sudden death of her husband 15 years ago. As I painfully struggle with the thoughts of prayers being answered or not, the meaning of dreams, fear of the future, the realities of the real world, this poem appears. It is exactly what I need at this precise moment. ("The Dance," Orian Mountain Dreamer, from The Dance, San Francisco, 2000.) Oriah says, "Letting go necessitates being with the fear that comes when we become aware that all that we love in the world - our very life itself - is impermanent. It can bring tremendous relief and rest to let go where we are trying to keep the same those things which by their very nature are constantly changing. This does not mean loving life and the world any less fiercely. Loving well and living fully are not the same as holding on."

          I have always loved fiercely. It can make me hard to live with, but it makes me who I am. My fears, longings, persistence and stubbornness are largely about trying to stop the action and hold onto what I think I need, what I  think I love, what I think is best for someone I love. I am learning in spite of myself - Autumn will have its time; Winter will have its time. Letting go, releasing the past, forgiving and giving myself space to breathe can signal rebirth. I believe, like I believe in Spring, I will rise. Thank God for my garden and for God's Nature all around me, teaching me season by season how to live well, how to be more alive. This year, as Autumn unfolds her colors and then lets them go, I harvest the joys in my life with gratitude and release what I could never hold, letting go of the past I can never change. (Meb)