Thoughts on Autumn (for Karen)

The day has turned off cool this morning. The clouds are pervasive and the wind blows through the shrubs and pushes the patio umbrella around. Still, I decide to sit outside to say Celtic morning prayer. A simple chant spontaneously rises up from my heart and passes whisper-like over my lips: "Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy." Actually, this day is not unlike that day four years ago when I visited Lindisfarne with the cloud cover and chilling wind off the North Sea and drizzly rain falling off and on. My lasting memory is riding away on the bus and looking back at the pilgrim pathway already covered with the creeping high tide.


Inside, Michael prepares breakfast. He has become quiet efficient at frying sausage, scrambling eggs, and timing his toast so that it's ready when everything else is prepared. This morning, I throw him a curve and ask him to include me in his preparations; I usually have oatmeal or yogurt, but today I want some "Southern" sustenance in the form of grits and sausage and eggs. It's almost like I feel the cold, lean days of winter coming, and I'm taking advantage of what's available now.

There's a hint of color in the maple trees, and the mums—golden, purple, and bronze—are in bloom. Our new garden spot is lovely, and St. Francis has taken up residence there. The birds constantly drain the feeders in the yard. They, too, are beginning to hunker down for what may be a long winter here in the foothills.

The day mimics my inner world. It is autumn. I am in an autumn state of mind. I long for time to just be—to be available to God and available to those who need me. For now, my students continue to need me, and I am grateful for my teaching position. One day, I will grow too weary of teenage angst and simply want to be at home where I can write, read, and perhaps paint a little. I realize that teaching is God's holy call on my life, but one day, I know that will be laid aside even for the God who called me to it. For now the journey is calling me to move more and more into my contemplative nature, closed in by sky and mountains, and comforted by all that is in Creation. God is mine, and I am God's own.

DAY IN AUTUMN

By Rainer Maria Rilke 1875–1926
Translated By Mary Kinzie

After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time
to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials
and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.
As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.
Direct on them two days of warmer light
to hale them golden toward their term, and harry
the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.

Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city's avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.

Source: Poetry (April 2008).