When autumn first starts to yawn it is contagious and I begin to feel the invitation to slow down, unwind, retract my energy and attention. I start anticipating the sheer, bare stillness of winter solstice with relief. My body takes cues from the yellowing tips of leaves, the morning’s snappish air, the sunlight slipping away just slightly. The planet twirls and spins and this is why seasons change and when I am in resonance with these natural signals to decelerate, I typically find myself busier than at any other time of year. In past years, I’ve dreaded winter, resisted adjusting my pace and ended up SAD! This year, holidays and all, I’m resolved to claim my quiet space, to have meaningful inner dialogues and rest in the verdant dark.
Fall flew by for me. I had been intending to neatly wrap up my summer writing project. It was late October when I mentioned this to a friend who said, “Summer is over and so is that project! What’s next?” That last part was nice to hear. It told me she is confident that I will keep finding new inspiration, especially if I set that intention and keep it with me like a compass.
I visited Capitol Reef National Park in Utah shortly after that conversation. I spent three days hiking the dry washes of slot canyons, my attention merging and twisting through towering white and orange sandstone cliffs. In those narrow and silent spaces, I felt contained and safe. The dense yet luminous surfaces existed as a boundary between my need for solitude and the pressing demands of my life. I let the canyons do their formidable work of sentinels as I soaked up the last of the season’s warm sunlight.
While hiking Cohab Canyon I rested on a flat surface of a ledge. Sounds were unapparent, only slight movements now and then in the environment, which I was able to perceive only after settling into a deep inner stillness. It seemed absolutely essential to meet that motionlessness, something I couldn’t resist doing and had to honor. So I sat in meditation, blessed now and then by a nimble, easy breeze as it travelled through the sandstone corridor. That light wind was full of a coolness that felt like a blessing or a grace.
A ladybug (in the desert!) landed on my hand and when I put a drop of water from my bottle there, she drank it. She stayed for a few minutes in my palm and for a moment, she and I were both the center of the universe and nothing at all. The slight weight of her was a focus in the immense vacuum of the canyon, an anchor in the transcendence and transparency of self. She then walked to the top of my finger, spread her odd shell-like wings and flew off.
Remembering that moment calms me still— has imprinted a sense of safety and connection in my consciousness just as the waters and time engraved these strange spaces in the land.
After my meditation, I found a pool of rainwater, hidden beneath the ledge where I had just rested. It explained the increased activity of birds, lizards, chipmunks and ladybugs I had begun to notice in this part of the canyon. Tiny tadpoles were gestating in the leftover rain and I wondered at how we had all intuitively constellated around that tiny pool of life-giving water.I mostly marveled at how I ended up in the mix— grateful for some wisdom in the body that resonates automatically with the elements and the seasons— amazed again and again each time I realize I am wholly interconnected and alive and aware.
a pool of rain
but sensed by all
the pressure of the desert
<an arid lack & willfullness of water>
yet here are hundreds of tadpoles
a flurry & commotion deep in the silence
where my eyes have adjusted
to this unperceived world, now
I am swimming in a puddle
in the bottom of (what was) the ocean
in the galaxy at night
from my dark and spacious winter dreams
I’m gathering words
reminders of our connection,
of our past and our future
(and all beings everywhere)
-Renee Podunovich, 2015