Autumn is the Perfect Time to Bloom

A Reminder for Women and Adoptees Who Fear They are Late to the Party

On Autumn Nights, I Open the Windows

And outside, the tangled leaves

of the oak and birch and dogwood, having lived

the unfurling of spring

and the long, humid heat of summer, flutter

their sighs of relief

along with me

at the first crisp dawns and moonlit skies.

Their edges begin to dry and curl,

the bright green of spring long gone,

the smooth skin of summer lifting

with each passing day.

Through the open windows, they whisper

in the breeze, at last able to reveal

what they have held, hidden within

all these long months—

the bright yellow of birch

and even now a newness freshly grown within—

russet of oak and almost-purple of dogwood. They tap their blades

at the window of my soul

until, at last, I awaken,

see them framed in moonlight, shimmying

in the night sky, and am reminded

of what I already know:

Over the peaks of the Great Smoky Mountains,

and up and down the Blue Ridge, all along the Shenandoah River,

and far across the waters in Glen Finglas and Blairgowrie,

neither the tightly curled spring nor that smooth summer skin

drew us in droves—no—

It is the great, fiery fall that calls us to its wonder, to witness

the alchemy waiting within all along.

And as the cool breeze passes over

my tired skin, the gentle whispers

of the leaves seep through my pores, saying:

your time is not past, my darling.

you are changing color, yes, but it is no matter

that some have eyes that see only summer.

Done?

You are only just beginning:

These bright colors,

this secret magic

is yours, now, at last.

And all of us, in our back gardens

and along the wild hills and valleys

are here, waiting for you

to join us.

At dawn and dusk and on nights alone, I do more than hear these whispers; I feel them in my bones. But as I walk out into the world in the bright light of day, their message can get lost in the knot of the culture in which we all walk.

All that long spring of youth and especially during our summer years, we are bombarded with messages about what to do and how to be—how to look and dress and behave. Which mostly means how to bend our bodies and our spirits to survive in a world that values youth, all that is new and fresh, and women who appeal to men.

And then, suddenly, we are invisible. No longer even seen, much less valued.

I recall, a few years back, when I first noticed that I was no longer drawing ‘the male gaze’. What a relief! I could pump gas in the tranquility of invisibility. I could linger in line at the grocery store, free from leering and comments. “Your husband is a lucky man.” “You look like a gym girl.”

And then the darker side of invisibility began to settle in: the self-doubt, the picking at myself about wrinkles, about not looking good enough, not having done, been, accomplished enough. For a minute (some years), I believed these thoughts, and sometimes they still seep in.

But (as I have written before and likely will again), I have also long seen the beauty and value of old women: my grandmothers and great aunts, and the women who come to me as characters in my novels and stories. The memories of their presence, their words and wisdom whisper to me, and like the leaves, they invite me to come home to myself in this season that is made for exactly that. And I, in turn, invite you.

For me, this coming home is not a place but an ongoing journey that requires regular practice because it is still a new way of being and of relating to myself and to the world. It involves slowing down and sometimes stillness, the capacity to listen in, to feel. I’ll write more about how I came to this point on the journey in future posts.

For now, if you’re unsure where or how to begin, here’s a writing prompt to get you started:

Here in the Northern Hemisphere, we are entering Autumn, a time for the harvesting of all that has grown through spring and summer, a time of natural slowing. In that spirit, I invite you to sit in the moonlight or at dawn by an open window, or if you can, in the woods; breathe deeply and listen for several minutes, and then, when you feel called, take up pen and paper and respond to this: if I listened to the leaves instead of the culture, what might I hear in their whispers? And then what might I do?

And here are a couple of notes, an invitation for adoptees, and some links:

The Notes-

1)In addition to all the messages the culture bombards us with in our early years, we adoptees have bent our growing bodies and spirits to be whatever our adoptive families expected. I believe that this makes us even more susceptible to the phenomena that are associated with ‘the male gaze’. And it makes it tougher to find our way back to our Selves and to see our own value.

2) Many of us don’t truly begin unravelling the impacts of our adoption journey until we are in or near the Autumn season of our lives. This means we have even more layers to peel back, more false or limiting beliefs to unlearn and replace. And we might feel or fear that we’ve come to it all too late. We haven’t. There’s good reason that this all begins to happen deeply for us in this season. It’s time, my loves; it’s our time!

The Invitation-

If you’re an adult adoptee, I’d love it if you joined me to write and/or practice mindfulness. Click here for details on free monthly mindful writing classes for adult adoptees. Or, if you’d prefer to sit in mindfulness and begin or deepen that relationship with Self, click here for details on mindfulness for adult adoptees (also free).

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