Illustration by Molly Zhou
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On a sunny autumn afternoon, I sit silently on a weathered, wooden bench, gazing around my garden, noticing hints of the season that has been, as well as the fallow period that is to come. I am struck by how much is going on – the unexpected bounty and beauty in “the now” that is all around me. The whole garden is still vibrant but in different ways than in full summer.
We don’t usually think of autumn as a season of growth. But as I imagine the garden as a metaphor for the autumn season of my own life journey, I feel inspired by all that this natural place has to teach about what growth can look like – and who it’s for.
Suddenly, as if the garden itself is speaking to me, a series of most provocative questions drifts into my mind. I wonder if the garden knows it’s in the later stages of its life cycle. If so, how does it respond to that conscious knowing? What occurs naturally in parts of the garden that benefits the whole?
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I think about everything my garden experiences and consider how it could apply to my own life. Producing and harvesting seeds is central to a garden’s existence. What seeds for the future have I been producing and how am I sharing them? Meanwhile, some plants bloom with no purpose other than to provide beauty. How can I contribute to the beauty of the world? And speaking of blooming, many plants re-bloom in autumn. Are there any parts of myself ready to bloom again?
Pruning makes me wonder if there are parts of my life that I should cut back. If a plant or part of the garden has become overgrown, one of the dangers is that its shade has negative effects on the growth of other plants. Does the shade that I cast get in the way of the growth of others? How might I step aside to encourage them? On the flip side, the key purpose of some plants is to offer shelter and nutrition for busy pollinators: How might I step forward to offer shelter and sustenance to others with different roles or lives than mine?
More and more, I am interested in the purpose and potential of the autumn season of life – and I’m exploring and reclaiming the conscious practice of eldering, which is acknowledged and understood in other cultures, especially Indigenous cultures, but seems somewhat lost to my own.
These garden reflections help me to move toward deeper understandings of how to be and think and act – how to best show up at this time in my life and in this time in the world.
I can look back at the seasons I’ve lived through and bring forward valuable lessons learned about navigating change, practising humility and compassion, living with wisdom – and gaining purpose. I’m reminded of a quote from Carl Jung: “A human being would not grow to be 70 or 80 years old if this longevity had no meaning for the species.”
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My quiet time in the garden teaches me to work to still all the noise so that I might be in touch with my soul. With mortality knocking at the gate and amidst all that is shifting and changing in my life, I’ll be the first to admit that this is not always easy. Not at all.
It calls for us to keep our hearts wide open despite feelings of vulnerability, grief and fear. Richard Rohr, author of Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life, has this to say about spiritual growth in the autumn season of our lives: “This is perhaps our major stumbling stone, the price we must pay to keep the human heart from closing down and to keep the soul open for something more.”
I come upon hints of that “something more” for the soul in all kinds of places. It tugs at my heart when I gaze into the shining eyes of my grandchildren or when I hold the hand of an old friend. I sense it deeply in our world, as I witness all the loss and, at the same time, all the promise.
When I catch my reflection in the mirror, it can surprise me yet also helps to ground me. And lately, every year in late September or October, the invitation for my soul to consider “something more” whispers to me in extraordinary ways in the hushed splendour of my autumn garden.
Cheryl Rose lives in North Vancouver.