Disabled and Whole

As I drove home from preschool drop off today, it was the sight of the autumn trees that drew my thoughts to lament.

Trees in Autumn so naturally lament as they let down their leaves. For some reason, this made me think of all of you. So many of us who are sitting in the ashes of something, trying to picking up the pieces, or maybe haven’t even gotten that far yet. 

Looking out at those trees, I somehow feel less alone. Autumn is like the earth’s gorgeous and guttural lament. Jim Crumley, author and naturalist, in his book titled, “The Nature of Autumn”, describes it like this:

“And the first day of autumn is the beginning of everything, the first stirrings of rebirth….The forest fall thickens the land with the limitless tons of bits and pieces of trees. The earth is hungry for these, for they break down into food; all spring, all summer, it has been thrusting life upwards and outwards, and by the last day of summer, it is tired. Autumn is the earth’s reviver and replenisher, the first day of autumn is the new beginning of everything and the last day of autumn is the beginning of next spring. Autumn is the indispensable fulcrum of nature’s year.” (Crumley, 13). 

Autumn. Earth’s reviver. Replenisher. Indispensable fulcrum of nature’s year…Perhaps, we can say the same of lament.

Limitless tons of bits and pieces of tree covering the forest floor. The earth hungry for it. I picture it as a time-lapse in my head, like the scene in “Pride and Prejudice” (Kierra Knightly Version), where as she glides in a circle on the backyard swing, and the family farm goes through all four season in a matter of ten seconds. 

I like to think that all these broken, shattered pieces of us that we feel so viscerally, hold so closely, and watch slowly fall to the ground, as a slow leaf on the wind, are somehow in the process of decomposing, and becoming part of the life-blood of our truest selves. That somehow our tears in this lifetime are fresh hydration for our souls.

Tears plunk onto the steering wheel as the colorful trees pass. Reminders that it’s natural through the cycle of our lives, to grieve and let go. 

In his chapter on “Autumn Leaves”, Jim writes about an almost fairytale-like, oak tree on the coast of Ariundle in Scotland. Childhood “me” jumps up and down inside as he paints a picture of it in my mind’s eye. He claims it all starts in the leaves:

“Leaves must produce food out of thin air, or else there is no tree. Luckily, for nature and all of us, they are extraordinarily good at it. There is, for example, a stupendously beautiful oak tree in Ariundle, within the Sunart Oakwoods of coastal Argyll, that is perhaps eighty feet tall and of still mightier girth of limbs. It is an old acquaintance of mine. Consider first that the whole edifice is the work of its leaves, and that no leaf lives longer than six months. Then, marvel at nature. Then, believe in magic!

Leaves begin life tight-packed in a bud. In spring, they start to expand, then they start to draw sap up through the tree. How do they do that? That is absolutely my favorite tree question. Because the answer is no one knows. We can split the atom and fly to the moon and find water on Mars but we don’t know how a leaf drags a tree up into the air. I find that profoundly reassuring.” (Crumley, 8)

Profoundly reassuring. Me too, Jim. There is truly something “magical” to this. I start to weep. 

As the preschool drop-off drive comes to a close, I think of a lone tree in a field, the sun hitting its leaves. Its roots stretch deeper into the earth. Leaves expand, unfurl. Years grow the tree, until an ancient axe swings and cuts it down. I watch as it is chopped in two, sanded down, and criss-crossed. Arms and legs are nailed to it with the same carpenter tools that could have made the tree into anything else. It’s lifted up and red flows down the fibers of wood. Not paint. Blood from a man. From God Himself, in anguish. God’s life-blood flowing from the final stab in his side, separated into water and cellular matter, certainty of death. Again, I imagine the tree. Grown by leaves catching the light of a Sun that rises only at the beck and call of the Master who formed it. A Son, who rises only at the beck and call of His Master who is Him.