The Days Grow Short

I am savoring the last days of summer. Don’t we all exclaim where did the season go? Each year, time slips by even more quickly. So it seems. Once we arrived home in Duluth, I intentionally moved more slowly and breathed in all I could of warm, sultry, humid afternoons. We are not at all accustomed to sweltering weather in the northland and it has been hot. I stopped moving. This is my year to slow down and find my peaceful place. I have had a strong inkling that I would never find happiness and satisfaction “out there”. All that I have searched for is right here in my home and in my heart.
This morning I startle to a plant stand toppling over out on the deck as a storm barrels through. I stumble downstairs to close the windows and give the wet, wood floors a quick mop while the coffee brews. I open the computer to look at the weekend forecast; the foretold temperatures are telling the change of season. I think it may be a bit early to pack up flowery skirts, but this nippy day will send me scurrying for a fleecy sweater. I may be eager for autumn, but I am certainly reluctant to let go of summer. This summer we have lived in the house. A place for contemplation is a porch we have never really used until now. Pleasant afternoons have been spent, sipping a glass of wine and watching ships come and go, wiling away the time in a woven lace hammock. We created space for contemplation and rest. I spend a few moments daily seeking refuge from the sun and take time for tea.
The past few days have been steeped in stillness. Sometimes it is under the guise of a meditation practice that I must make myself sit still and observe each moment. It’s then that I find I really am practicing meditation. As the season slows, I hope to be more comfortable with being still. I often become fidgety and feel the need to do something, accomplish a mountain of tasks perhaps that could never in a lifetime be accomplished anyway. I now no longer have to wait for the weekend. I can take on this and that on any given day now that I am retired. This is the year of me. I may have exclaimed that in years past, but I have never really learned how to be selfish enough to make it all about me. Now I vow to waste more time, to watch the waves roll in one after another, to take naps, to walk the dog more, watch the travel channel, play with words, meditate in my garden and find the meaning of radical rest.
Rest can still be as foreign as my distant culture's siesta. I still fill every day with something to do. In this new life I am creating, I intend to revisit the Sabbath… Sunday with its special feeling–leisurely, quiet, sleepy and special. There is something about once having Sunday sacred. I am guilty of filling the day like any other with chores and errands and projects. If Goddess rested on the seventh day then I have lost an important lesson. I have never needed a building to enter for worship. For me nature nurtures and on my Sabbath it is the ritual I need to return to– walking in the woods, the crunch of sun-burnished leaves underfoot, making the first prints in the snow, breakfast while I languor in bed, tending to sacred space in the house. Like love, my soul needs nurturing. This year is my journey into the next chapter of my life. Understanding those who came before me as I grow older and savoring that connection while sharing that understanding with my children and grandchildren. Sharing what I learn about who I am through words on a page is my foray to connectedness. Thomas Moore reminds us: Soul is not about understanding it’s about connecting.
As fall returns with refreshing crisp breezes, cool temperatures and fading afternoon sun, I am learning to be more present, to be ever mindful of the simple tasks that I intentionally place in my day. Most importantly I cultivate stillness and tend to my soul as the days grow short.