Letting Go and Letting In

“I need to be silent for a while. Worlds are forming in my heart.” —Master Eckhart

My husband and I regularly take care of our baby granddaughter, and one of my favorite parts of each day is putting Eloise down for a nap. She might fuss momentarily as I zip her into her sleep sack, but once I start singing she looks up at me and her face melts into a smile that conveys the pure contentment of release, a softness that lingers even as her eyes close.

The ease with which she slides into sleep is reminiscent of what nature does each autumn, giving us a lasting, golden smile, then loosening her grip, letting go of much of what she worked so hard to create all spring and summer. As her leaves and petals drop to the ground, nature’s forces turn inward, to wait and wait until the angle of the sun and the warming of the air signal that it’s time to begin the cycle again.

When I started painting years ago, I recognized the wisdom of claiming the non-growing half of the year as my time to turn inward, too. Redirecting the extra hours I spend outside in the warmer months as studio time, I gather stories to tell on the canvas as my antidote to the shorter days and muted tones of winter. I reach for the colors and imagery that express what I’m feeling, or longing to feel. In a good session, the brush flows freely, delivering a cascade of shape and hue that seems to have arrived from someplace wiser—beyond me. 

Because I work incrementally on a painting over a period of weeks, I’ve learned to liberate myself from the pressure of getting things right on any given day, to trust that, in time, my intuition and intention will lead me forward on a true course, a decade-long practice that has evolved in my life as well. Painting blunders and distressing situations often hold the seeds of something worthy and beautiful.

Unknowingly, my mother showed me the value of letting go when dementia dimmed her memory during her final years. Freed from the grief she had carried most of her life, a heaviness that often led her to judge those she was closest to, she returned to her original joy, and, like baby Eloise, was buoyant more often than not. 

I think of all this as I sit at my writing desk and observe the trees in the woodland by our house. I imagine being like the maples, who let go of their leaves effortlessly, while they are still saturated with color. They are like my mother was, offering bright moments of happiness to anyone in their presence, ephemeral reminders of being fully in the now. And then, there are the red oaks, who hold on through the winds and rains of October, their leaves shriveling on the stem and eventually falling one at a time through the month of November like snowflakes floating to the ground. And if your goal is tenacity, look no further than the young beech trees, who keep their leaves all winter long, until they are translucent and brittle, a term scientists call marcescence. Last February, while walking on a woodland trail with a friend, we both spontaneously stopped as a long, slow wind moved through a stand of such beeches, marshaling a symphony of rustling parchment that lasted for minutes and left us speechless. 

The beeches’ letting go occurs in the flush of spring on a still, warm day when no one is watching. I’m not sure if the papery leaves detach on their own or are pushed to the ground by the newly minted ones, but I like to believe they work together, the old ready to offer its carbon to the earth, and the new to start the cycle once more.

But that is months away, and here we are in the early days of the march into darkness, when there is time to reflect and call upon our inner resources, often while making soup or delighting in the fact that we have long evenings that allow us to pursue our quiet hobbies, which is the greatest benefit of living in a place with a true winter. After such a mild autumn, this year I’m noticing the effort of unhitching from the warmth, but there’s no turning back. Better to bundle up and take long walks, catching vibrant sunsets (at 4 pm!) through the bare trees, a perspective we have access to thanks to their letting go.