Raked the leaves again this morning. I raked them the day before yesterday too. There are so many now. They rain down in all their rich shades of gold and crimson. Odd when they fall, they twis and twirl then lightly land on the now bare wooded shrubs. So for a short time, like every year, the garden has turned to a reddish, brownish and golden flurry of colour that is quite mystical in many ways. Looking towards the sky the falling leaves appear like a kaleidoscope when shaken as they tumble down. For me It means a long time spent outside, clearing not only leaves also broken branches and clearing bracken or pulling weeds. The hard part is lugging everything over to the large old white sacks and filling them to be deposed of. I love the crackle of the leaves under my feet as I walk to fill the bags. The whimsical way small bits of fallen branches lay on and around the garden path are a delight but some would say a mess. The real magic of this time of year are the hundreds of mushrooms growing among the clutter. More than last year, they just pop up on old tree stumps and between the slate and in shaded areas of grass. I love the smell of the earth this time of year too, its just so sweet after the rain. Especially in that part of the garden that remains untouched. There, the earth is fresh and full of ground covers and where beetles and spiders are busy about their day. The freshness of this untouched beauty, makes me think of Eden – who knows it may have originated here. I feel this will be our last autumn in the house and although I want to go, I will miss the sweet earth – the smell of bracken and broken mushrooms. The songbirds as they chirp up high in the trees. My, what a wonderful thing a garden is. ~ Eve
photos from my garden.
I would not call this meditation, sitting in the back garden. Maybe I would call it eating light on a summer’s day. Mystical traditions recognize two kinds of practice: apophatic mysticism, which is the dark surrender of Zen, the Via Negativa of John of the Cross, and kataphatic mysticism, less well defined: an openhearted surrender to the beauty of creation. Maybe Francis of Assissi was, on the whole, a kataphatic mystic, as was Thérèse of Lisieux in her exuberant momemnts: but the fact is, kataphatic mysticism has low status in religious circles. Francis and Thérèse were made, really made, any mother superior will let you know, in the dark nights of their lives: no more of this throwing off your clothes and singing songs and babbling about the shelter of God’s arms.
Mary Rose O’Reilley, The Barn at the End of the World