Fall has been percolating since August, a realization that struck me one summer afternoon when I noticed a small patch of red leaves on a tree in our front yard. How odd, I thought. How could that be? I noticed other signs, too. Subtle shifts in the light, changes in the grass, and the cawing of crows announced that fall was creeping in.
Living in the country has deepened my experience of the changing seasons. In the city, it felt more like the flip of a switch. One day it’s summer and the next you wake up and the shop windows and sandwich boards have changed. Pumpkin lattes are on the menu so it must be fall!
Here in the woods, I’ve grown to appreciate the slow, daily transition which is funny considering my general aversion to limbo. But man, doesn’t nature do the messy middle just so beautifully? Here I am with ripe tomatoes while the leaves are changing. I’ve got one foot in summer and the other in fall. Holding these two realities? THIS I can do. In the everyday? Not so much.
Observing mother nature in action is like basic training for real life. It’s an invitation to experience a fundamental law of existence — that, to quote Anne Lamott, “All truth is paradox.”
Let’s be honest: Straddling the divide takes courage and creativity. Certainty feels way better. Fitting ourselves neatly into a box, avoiding change because it’s uncomfortable, or judging what we don’t understand are all examples of clinging to certainty, even if what we know isn’t working anymore or worse, is causing suffering at our own hand.
The battle of either/or is a product of the mind. It’s a survival mechanism — safer to stick with this or that because at least we know what we’re getting. If it’s a little bit of this, there’s no room for that. And if you don’t like this, you hold on tighter to that. Either/or leaves no room for curiosity, listening, or nuance, and it sounds silly when you spell it out but here we are — as humans, as communities, as a country.
Both/and is high risk because in order to accept opposing truths, we need to step into the divide. It’s messy and awkward and sometimes painful work, but this is why we practice. I’ve been thinking about this in standing poses when my legs are spread wide apart and I’m trying to stay present in both of my feet which is hard because they’re often doing different things. If I listen and stay curious, I can adjust my effort and meet the moment.
There’s a reservoir of steadiness beneath the changing tides. I can feel it out here in the wilds of nature and it compels me to stay open. As I step into fall, I’ll watch closely for signs of winter and try to remember not to grasp too tightly to what is fading or resist what’s to come. After all, the present moment isn’t either/or. It’s always everything.
