The Season of Loss

“I once was lost, but now am found.” ~ Amazing Grace  

I  stare out the win­dow in my office, smil­ing as a sud­den gust of wind sweeps the leaves into a col­or­ful cyclone. Last week­end marked the autum­nal equinox, the astro­log­i­cal moment when the day and night are of almost exact­ly equal length. This means we will enjoy one less minute of light each day until Dec. 21, the win­ter sol­stice, when that cycle reverses. 

As a Leo and lover of all things sum­mer, the march towards short­er, cool­er days his­tor­i­cal­ly leaves me feel­ing nos­tal­gic and melan­choly. But this year feels dif­fer­ent.  First, I have a pair of “mag­ic” glass­es that have helped to cor­rect my col­or­blind­ness, so I am lit­er­al­ly wit­ness­ing the leaves change for the first time in my life.

I am over­whelmed with the beau­ti­ful shades of gold, auburn and gar­net, over­come with the majes­tic beau­ty of the sug­ar maples and dog­woods, mes­mer­ized by the dance between the shift­ing light and the trees as they change clothes. 

Secondly, I’m lean­ing into the beau­ty of loss this sea­son. A lot of things have gone miss­ing this year. I lost a friend to can­cer. I lost my favorite Taylor Swift tote at a Lawrenceburg airbnb. I lost my abil­i­ty to care about the extra pounds that are accom­pa­ny­ing per­i­menopause. I lost $50 play­ing slots in Cincinnati. I lost sleep over an argu­ment I had with my hus­band. I have seem­ing­ly lost my abil­i­ty to write.

I lost my tem­per, my dig­ni­ty, my per­spec­tive and my mind a few times. I lost ‑then regained – then lost again – hope more than once. I am keen­ly aware of how quick­ly the sand is run­ning through the par­ent­ing hour­glass; I am ever los­ing the sweet lit­tle girl who need­ed me to a beau­ti­ful young woman who doesn’t quite so much. 

To be alive is to expe­ri­ence loss. Loss mea­sures time, book­end­ing life’s indi­vid­ual sea­sons. We lose jobs, loved ones, oppor­tu­ni­ties, our youth. We lose count­less hours wor­ry­ing about things we might lose in the future. This antic­i­pa­to­ry loss is no more than a fig­ment of our imag­i­na­tion, yet the anx­i­ety and grief that accom­pa­nies it feels all too real. 

Our abil­i­ty to grace­ful­ly nav­i­gate loss is the mark of a strong spir­it. Loss leaves us wis­er and more resilient. We lose some­thing, but gain some­thing on the oth­er side. It’s like a cut on your tongue; you can’t for­get that it’s there, but it makes the tang of a sum­mer-ripened toma­to all that more evident. 

Maybe It’s in the los­ing that we’re found. 

Loss is the only thing we are promised. Humans are hard­wired to hold tight to that which brings us plea­sure, flee from that which brings us pain, and move on from those things over which we feel impar­tial or dis­in­ter­est­ed. Loss is the nat­ur­al col­lat­er­al dam­age from these evo­lu­tion­ary reflex­es. To be alive means to change, but the unknow­ing­ness of change feels scary.  So we cling to some­thing – even if it sucks – sim­ply because it’s famil­iar.  Sometimes, life has to yank some­thing out of our tight fist to bring us what is actu­al­ly ours. No mat­ter how much we love some­thing – be it a per­son, a thing or an expe­ri­ence – the even­tu­al­i­ty of loss abides. 

Everything must come to an end.  As a much-revered spir­i­tu­al teacher of mine once stat­ed, “Rust nev­er sleeps.” The prac­tice lies in being at peace with what­ev­er out­come arises. 

In Chinese med­i­cine, fall is con­sid­ered the sea­son of grief. Less day­light and cool­er tem­per­a­tures are thought to affect our lungs, the organ cor­re­lat­ed with loss in this ancient sys­tem of well­ness.  If we don’t exhale deeply enough, it is thought we sim­i­lar­ly won’t be able to release our heartaches. So the breath becomes the prac­tice. We watch it come and go, curi­ous but detached, flow­ing with life rather than resist­ing it. In the prac­tice of let­ting go, we also lose the need to con­trol, and can feel detach­ment take shape in our hearts. When we aren’t so attached to out­comes, we fall into that beau­ti­ful place of contentment. 

The trees don’t despair of their falling leaves. Why should we?