As I write, the sun has already crossed the equator and we have slipped into autumn. Years ago, the turning of summer to fall was always accompanied by an exquisite and frenzied anxiety that focused on the upcoming school year. Will I be ready? Will I be good enough, smart enough? Will the other kids like me? Have I grown too tall for the boys? Today, as I walk through our deep New Hampshire woods, following the path that our mama bear had thoughtfully carved out earlier in the year, and as the pine cones crack under my feet, I do know this: I am grateful for the wisdom that age has brought me, grateful that a fifth-grade anxiety has yielded to a more tempered peace.
I think of autumn as the season of transition between the heated passion of summer living and the encroaching deep darkness of a northern New England winter. Along with it comes the sweet-–sometimes bittersweet-–call to release. Unlike my early years, when I defined success in terms of how many A's and how many friends, today I know that the deep spiritual blessing of winter hangs on my willingness to know autumn as the season of release. My question for autumn is “what is it I need to let go?”
The notion of letting go is nothing new. The Chinese philosopher/poet Chuang Tzu was describing what has been named “the apophatic way” --the way of letting go--as early as the third or fourth century BC. In his poem “The Woodcarver,” he tells the story of a woodcarver whose name is Khing. Khing is commanded by the village prince to carve a bell stand, and he does, a bell stand of exquisite and rare beauty. The people assume he has been possessed by the spirits, and the prince wants to know his secret. Khing replies that he has no secret; his is a process available to those who are willing. He speaks of “guarding his spirit,” not expending it on things that don't matter. Khing's first response, then, to the command of his prince, is to protect the source of his art—his spirit—by releasing all that distracts him from it.
His is a process of self-emptying, of releasing ego. “After three days fasting,” says the woodcarver, “I had forgotten gain and success. After five days, I had forgotten praise or criticism.” Khing's capacity for attentiveness lay on the other side of his ego concerns.
Only then does he go into the forest to see the trees in their natural state. Only then—on the far side of his self-emptying process—does Khing realize the privilege of a live encounter with the right tree. He says, “When the right tree appeared before my eyes, the bell stand also appeared in it, clearly, beyond doubt.”
Chuang Tzu's rich poem shows up regularly in Circle of Trust retreats, and with good reason; the woodcarver's is a story that continues to unfold its secrets across myriad professions. As a clergy person, teacher and artist, I have been hearing one narrative lately, in several forms, a narrative picking up in intensity on the autumn side of the equinox.
The narrative has to do with a certain sense of powerlessness to effect change, to make a difference; the narrative has to do with the resultant anger and frustration. “I am so angry, but there is nowhere to put this rage.” “I feel so powerless.” I hear comments such as these often. I speak them myself just as frequently.
Clergy, educators, artists, medical professionals and others in the serving professions want to know how we can continue to engage the suffering of the earth without being consumed by it. We want to know how we can hold a vision of spiritual freedom and grace without taking flight ourselves. We want to know how we hold them both, and at the same time, without, on the one hand, collapsing into despair and powerlessness, and on the other, simply refusing to engage.
Is it possible that we, like the woodcarver, might be blessed by autumn's invitation to release and let go? Is it possible that we might learn to access the fruits of our own self-emptying processes? And if fasting is not our practice of choice, then, how do we release the constant ego chatter that often takes the form of “I should be able to fix this,” “I should be making a difference," "I should be smart enough, strong enough, experienced enough, trained enough ..." These are the adult equivalents of long ago fifth-grade anxieties.
• Autumn's invitation, I believe, is to do the work of letting go. What might you need to let go this particular autumn of your spiritual journey for the sake of what might be nurtured in the dark womb of winter?
• Are there elements you encounter within your own profession that want to pull you in one direction or the other, toward hopelessness on the one hand or flight on the other?
• What self-emptying process might allow you, like Khing the woodcarver, the eyes and ears to see and hear that which longs to appear before you?