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 , October 2003
Several
years ago I was lamenting with a colleague in parish ministry
the constant changes and transitions that the staff had been
going through for what seemed like an eternity and all the
"hellos" and "goodbyes" that had taken
place in our lives in what seemed like a rather short time.
"Dying and rising, dying and rising. . . who thought
that up?" she joked during one of these conversations.
I’ve
been reminded of that lately as I look out my window at the
swiftly falling leaves that just last week were still green
and now cover the sidewalk in front of my house. I thought
of that again several weeks ago when I cut back the clematis
vine in the backyard so that in the spring it would yield
its rich, lush and deep purple flowers. I thought of that
yesterday when a friend of mine shared that this autumn season
reminds her of transfiguration, of how all that surrounds
us and is present in our lives somehow is seen in a different
way, in a new light because of how it is transfigured before
our eyes.
Dying
and rising, dying and rising . . . who thought that
up, indeed. It’s been said that all of creation, the
handiwork of God, the fruit of God’s love, is the first
catechist, the first Gospel, the first place in which we come
to know something of the truth of who we are in relationship
with God.
In places
where the seasons change and along with them the landscape,
it’s perhaps easier or more apparent to make a connection
between what is taking place outside and all around us with
what might be taking place within us as well. It’s perhaps
easier to make sense of our changing interior landscapes as
we notice the exterior landscapes being transfigured before
our eyes.
And what’s
taking place in nature and God’s ongoing and daily acts
of creation, the very rhythm of life that surrounds us, that
holds our own lives, can be for us, as they were for the psalmist
and for Jesus, revelations of God’s providence, love
and fidelity. They can be for us as they were for them sources
of truth and meaning in our own lives.
The leaves
that are quickly turning color and rapidly falling away from
the stability that held them through their green time, if
left to their own process, will dry up, die and break down
into what will eventually become rich and fertile soil that
can readily give birth to new forms of life for beauty and
for sustenance.
What appears
to be so graceful, beautiful and natural as it takes place
in other parts of creation is often the very thing that causes
the human heart pain, sadness and sorrow. We can appreciate
and cherish the glorious colors of fall as the seasons change,
but perhaps have difficulty appreciating and cherishing the
natural changes in our own lives. I can cut back and strip
the clematis vine in my backyard confident that it will birth
new life in the spring, but I lack that same confidence or
forget that truth when I am faced with the need to cut back
or strip something of my interior landscape.
The poet
David Whyte notes in one of his commentaries that human beings
are the only part of creation that can refuse our own flowering.
In this season of transfiguration, let’s pray that we
might have the grace to embrace and appreciate the beauty
of own daily dyings, sure fallings and swift turnings so that
come spring we may embrace our own rich, deep and lush flowering.
— Sister
Mary Pellegrino
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Sisters of St Joseph - Baden
1020 State Street, Baden PA 15005
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