ALL THE TREES ARE LOSING THEIR LEAVES, AND NOT ONE OF THEM IS WORRIED
All the trees are losing their leaves, and not one of them is worried. Donald Miller
The last few weeks have felt like a transition. I feel very much as if I am between things. Between stages, in my life as an artist. Between ages, as I feel older than young, but younger than old. Witnessing a between-ness in my mother’s life, as she travels the path of dementia- she is still here, but sometimes elsewhere as well. And of course given that October has been largely sunny and warm in my part of the world, until today, when a north wind has blown a chill into the air and the leaves off the trees; I feel in between seasons.
Changes in temperature and light levels elicit a response in body mind and the creative spirit. In addition, this week has seen a doozy of a full moon, whose tug I have felt more than ever as if she is chiding me to pay attention, consider things, slow down, wake up. I need this reminder that I am a cyclical being; the days and seasons turn and I am part of that. I feel almost as if I need to reinvent myself again- to adapt my pattern of living, eating and making art to the shortening days. (It’s soup season, and I’ve started eating bread again; the malty, dark kind that begs for and yields to a slab of salty butter. My body yearns for bed as soon as it’s dark. And I feel an urgent need to create art- for me, quietly, with no one watching.
This is how I feel. It’s time to stop wandering; to rest, affirm, to reinforce the learning, discovery and connection that has taken place.
For a naturally introspective and introverted person like me- in fact, like many artists, there’s scarcely any energy left for a final push before drawing inwards. The trees that take centre stage in the Wye Valley on my doorstep provide the perfect metaphor. In autumn, chemical changes in the tree signal to the leaves that the ageing process is beginning and the transfer of nutrients from leaf to tree will commence. Once this process is complete, the leaves fall, preventing the expenditure of precious energy for photosynthesising during a period of low light and short days. The tree uses its supply of nutrients and carbohydrates over the winter period. (The arboreal equivalent of eating bread.)
Henry David Thoreau understood how our own bodies and souls reflect nature’s changes; we start looking down, instead of at the sky- we consider the outcome of the harvest, of the ideas and projects that were sown earlier in the year- we contemplate how we sustain ourselves through the coming winter.
What does this mean, for the creative spirit? For me, it’s the start of a move back to for stability and grounding. The optimism of spring and the headiness of summer have passed, and after the travelling, gathering, exploring, a quieter routine is important. It’s time to consider what is important to me, a reaffirming of goals, a revisiting and reconfirming values, a regeneration of ideas previously put on hold. It’s all about using these resources to quietly shape whatever it is that is growing within me ready for the resurgence of energy in the spring.
Sister Corita Kent loved the tree metaphor. Of the tree growing outside her window, she said- “the tree looks dead, but we know it is beginning a very deep creative process, out of which will come spring and summer.” For a while, it may look from the outside that I’m not doing much. But inside, the roots continue to spread and there is life in the quietness.
