Decomposition

A note about seasonality on the autumnal equinox

There is a theory that we choose this life and its challenges in order to learn what we need for our soul’s growth. I don’t know if it’s true or some bullshit that we made up to make sense of chaos. Whether we choose our challenges, or not, perhaps, our soul is here to heal. 

In the beginning of the healing process we look for shortcuts: bandages, pills to numb the pain. We place our healing in the hands of someone else: a shaman, a teacher, a doctor, a friend. Yet, the alchemy of the soul requires that we step through the flames. 

Healing requires that we untangle the web with our bare hands and get to the string that connects it all. 

In truth, our healing is always in our own hands. There is no map. Yet, here we all are, much more alike than different. Vulnerability, the invisible glue that ties our healing together. Our souls collectively beckoned forward to break free from the grasp of a quicksand society.

I am determined to walk through the flames. It is not a glamorous thing. It is finding the right therapist, cultivating healthy habits, washing the fucking dishes. It is tapping into forgiveness, ravaging our mind to heal that which we wish to forget. It is: making a budget, navigating choices, making space and time for each other and ourselves. It’s realizing that within the mess and confusion, the lifeline of the soul is still there.

I once traveled to New Hampshire in what I thought would be peak foliage. I hiked to the nearest peak, a place I expected to find

a sea of red, yellow, orange. Instead, bare trees held their arms out, everything was brown. I sat down. For a moment, disappointment washed over me. Then, a curious little feeling arose. What if there was beauty in this?

I pondered how the leaves on the ground might nourish the soil. I thought about cycles: the falling leaves, the empty branches, the winter, the green, the sea of colors. None of it is possible without a season of decomposition. A time of healing beneath the surface, from the inside out. If we can find our joy only in one season, what do we do with the rest of the year? 

We are always being sold the idea that there is something out there that is better than what we have. A larger screen TV, something to manifest, to want, to grasp towards. Yet, can we for a moment rest in what we already have? Can we say “yes” to what is? Can we surrender enough to the season to enjoy all the weather?