A Stream of Transformation

For days now, even weeks, falling leaves swirl about, and they’re overlaying memories of watching the beautiful maple and oak trees in autumns past. While the leaves were beautiful, my feelings were not so pleasant, bittersweet, at best. So I’ve been anticipating that poignancy…yet it’s not rising up. This season stirs differently; instead of tinged with sadness, the flow seems to move into a stream of transformation. More like feeling into the unknown…not necessarily unpleasant. Leaves lightly dance—as if death is not to dread, as if the mystery beyond has not ending at heart, but a penetrating continuity.

   Perhaps the different view owes partly to recent readings: Towards Mystical Union by Julienne McLean, Spiritual Pilgrims by John Welch, and Androgyny by June Singer. Important material has been drawn especially from The Interior Castle of Saint Teresa of Avila, also from the work of C.G. Jung, particularly his “Stages of Life” (from CW8, pp. 387-403). Old age allows a changing experience with falling leaves, but it doesn’t force it. 

          What do we make of dying and the possibility of what follows? Jung advises us “to discover in death a goal towards which one can strive, and that shrinking away from it is something unhealthy and abnormal which robs the second half of life of its purpose. . . it would therefore be desirable to think of death as only a transition, as part of a life process whose extent and duration are beyond our knowledge” [p. 402; para 792].

   Some friend posted a helpful excerpt from John O’Donohue:

"The dead are not distant or absent. They are alongside us. When we lose someone to death, we lose their physical image and presence, they slip out of visible form into invisible presence. This alteration of form is the reason we cannot see the dead. But because we cannot see them does not mean that they are not there. Transfigured into eternal form, the dead cannot reverse the journey and even for one second re-enter their old form to linger with us a while. Though they cannot reappear, they continue to be near us and part of the healing of grief is the refinement of our hearts whereby we come to sense their loving nearness. When we ourselves enter the eternal world and come to see our lives on earth in full view, we may be surprised at the immense assistance and support with which our departed loved ones have accompanied every moment of our lives. In their new, transfigured presence their compassion, understanding and love take on a divine depth, enabling them to become secret angels guiding and sheltering the unfolding of our destiny.” [from Beauty: The Invisible Embrace] 

 

   Another posting came from the work of Anaïs Nin :

“I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me — the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.”  (The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947-1955)

 

   Love is, of course, the Way. While it may be an “ever-fixed mark,” love also offers ever deepening. My feeling for these trees, and the presence as well as absence of their leaves. Their presence through the seasons of life deepens. The gift of photography, like Anaïs Nin’s art, follows their falling, like O’Donohue’s love taking on a divine depth, and guides us on beyond our knowledge.