Rev. Joshua M. Pawelek
Friends, once again, we arrive in the brown season, a season between seasons, the time before winter. As we sang, “Now light is less …. The haze of harvest drifts across the field …. The walker trudges ankle deep in leaves …. The blood slows trance-like in the altered vein; our vernal wisdom moves from ripe to sere.”[1] Words of the poet Theodore Roethke. Our vernal wisdom, our spring wisdom, our green wisdom, our buds blossoming on branches wisdom, our wisdom rooted in that annual March-April experience of rebirth and renewal—that wisdom moves now from ripe to sere. Sere, meaning dry, dried up, withered, cracked, bare, barren, threadbare, worn thin. We arrive in the brown season.
So many shades of brown: the last color of autumn before winter’s grey days and white snow; the endmost color of leaves; the color of empty fields; the color of dry grass; the color of “cornstalks finally bare”[2] and the remnants of apples in the far corners of orchards. Brown: the color of wheat gathered into sheaves and waiting; the color of pheasants gathering the fallen grain;[3] and my favorite, the color of pumpkins rotting on front steps, the light of their Halloween eyes long since extinguished, their once frightening faces now slowly, even comically, sinking into themselves. Brown: the color of soil, the color of dirt, the color of earth. After autumn’s beauty has shown forth, after its grandeur has lifted our spirits and taken our breath one final time, after its fanfare has inspired us one final time, it all gives way to dark, brown earth. No more pageantry. No more glory. Only dry brown leaves decaying on floors of New England woods, settling into dust and dirt, growing silent, growing still, growing receptive; receiving the cold; receiving the first, tentative snows; receiving the lengthening nights; settling down; becoming part and parcel of the dark, brown earth.
Yes, the sun does rise and shine in this season and we will see it as long as we hold our gaze in a southward direction. Yes, the blue sky does present itself in this season and we will see it if we are patient. But the prevailing color, especially the color of the land, the prevailing hue, the prevailing feeling is brown. Life moves now from ripe to sere.
The poet W.S. Merwin writes, “In the morning as the storm begins to blow away / the clear sky appears for a moment and it seems to me / that there has been something simpler than I could ever / believe / simpler than I could have begun to find words for.”[4] If I may grossly reduce these lines to a cliché, he’s talking about his experience—and I read it as a mystical, spiritual experience—of the calm after the storm. After the winds, after the rains, after the thunder and the lightening, after all the tumult—there in the breaking day, in the clear sky he encounters “something simpler than I could ever believe.” He doesn’t name this something other than to say it is “no more hidden / than the air itself that became part of me for a while / with every breath and remained with me unnoticed / something that was here unnamed unknown in the days / and the nights not separate from them.”[5]
The poet doesn’t name this something—he doesn’t know its name—but at the risk of answering a question that isn’t seeking to be fully answered, perhaps this something is Earth’s sheer beauty, or Nature’s awesome force and Her equally awesome gentleness, or the vastness of the universe, or the smallness of human beings in that vastness. Perhaps for a fleeting moment the poet grasps his connectedness to the whole of life—“the air that became a part of me for a while with every breath”[6]—or perhaps for a fleeting moment the poet grasps the sacredness of life, or the movement of a Holy Spirit, or the love of a loving God, or the designs of a Goddess overflowing with creative energy. No matter what it is, no matter what its name is, he knows it is here, it is present. That is his experience. He says, essentially, it has been here all along, though often unnoticed, unnamed and unknown, and it is “simpler than I could ever believe.” He wants to know its name. He asks, “By what name can I address it now?” Why? Because he is holding out his thanks.[7] He wants to say “thank you.” Somehow this something simpler than he could ever believe generates a feeling of gratitude in him. In a different context he might shout, “Hallelujah!”
This brown season, this season between seasons, more than any other is spiritually akin to the calm after the storm. This brown season is so unlike blissful, joyful spring’s planting and birthing; so unlike clamoring, raucous summer’s growing and ripening; so unlike glorious, celebratory autumn’s abundance and harvest. This brown season, this bare and barren and threadbare season, this sere season, this season of the birds departing for warmer climes, this season of so much life returning to the earth, this season of decay, this empty season is so different from the tumult and the glory and the pageantry that precedes it. In this season the trees strip down to their bark; the farmland and the pastures strip down to their dirt; the red, orange and yellow leaves fade down to brown; the once proud stalks and vines and grasses lose their green, lose their moisture, dry out, bend or crack, and lie down with the fallen leaves, returning slowly to the earth. As the cold increases a new quiet pervades, a deep stillness rises, much like the calm after the storm.
In this brown season may we allow ourselves, like the trees, to strip down to our bark, to reveal our true selves, to remove all pretense, to hide nothing—no more colorful masks, no more splendid costumes—not in this season. Just our true selves, our real selves, our essential selves. No more holding our tongues when we ought to speak up, no more denials that compromise our values, no more shadings of the truth, no more unreasonable contortions for the sake of pleasing others. Just ourselves, stripped down to our bark—simpler than we could ever believe.
In this brown season may we allow ourselves, like the farmland and the pastures, to strip down to our dirt, to strip down to the ground in which we are rooted, to strip down to that which holds us, to that which nurtures and nourishes us, to that which, when the springtime comes, will cause us to grow and bear fruit; to strip down to that without which we would not be ourselves; to strip down to that without which we could not survive; to strip down to that without which we would lose all sense of meaning and purpose. Just ourselves, stripped down to our dirt, to that which holds us—simpler than we could ever believe.
In this brown season may we allow ourselves, like the majestic autumn leaves, to fade down to brown; to let the cycles of life be the cycles of life; to move and flow with Nature, not against her; to accept life as it comes and as it is, rather than force it into some shape, some pattern, some color whose time is over. Just ourselves, fading down to brown—simpler than we could ever believe.
In this brown season may we allow ourselves, like the once proud stalks and vines and grasses now losing their moisture, to lie down with the fallen leaves, so that we may remember and know and trust our oneness with the dark, brown earth; so that we may remember and know and trust our origins in the dark, brown earth; so that we may remember and know and trust that some day we too shall return to the dark, brown earth; so that we may be mindful of our ancestors, mindful of so many generations of human beings and their precursors who lived as one with the dark, brown earth and who, in their own time, returned to the dark, brown earth; so that we may be mindful of their gods and goddesses who were also one with the dark, brown earth; their divine names and their divine powers perhaps forgotten, but their spirit still infused in the dust and muck of the dark, brown earth. Just ourselves, laying down with the fallen leaves—simpler than we could ever believe.
In this brown season, as the cold increases, as a new quiet pervades, as a deep stillness rises, may we sense, feel, intuit, grasp, perceive, know, imagine, dream the presence of something simpler than we could ever believe—something simpler than any words we might find, something emerging from the time before words, emerging at once from some place within us and someplace beyond us where words aren’t necessary, something that has always been there, that has always been present, no more hidden than the air, something with us but unnoticed, something potent but unnamed, something abiding but unknown, something, as the poet says, “in the days and the nights not separate from them / not separate from them as they came and were gone,”[8] something essential, something sustaining, something nourishing, something holy, something sacred, something of the earth’s sheer beauty, or something of Nature’s awesome power and her awesome gentleness, or something of the vastness of the universe, or something of the smallness of human beings in that vastness, or something of our connectedness to the whole of life, or something of a Holy Spirit, or something of a loving God, or something of a Goddess overflowing with creative energy, or something that is felt more than spoken, something that moves up and down our spines but never quite comes to mind, something of the heart that ultimately defies naming—something simpler than we could ever believe, but right here, with us, now.
May we come close to that simple something in this brown season and be filled with gratitude for the blessings of our lives, whatever they may be. May we come close to that simple something in this brown season and hold out our thanks. May we come close to that simple something in this brown season and mouth the words, “thank you.” As “the haze of harvest drifts across the field,”[9] thank you. As “the walker trudges ankle deep in leaves,”[10] thank you. As our vernal wisdom moves from ripe to sere,”[11] thank you. As the trees strip down to their bark, thank you. As the land strips down to its dirt, thank you. As the pheasants gather in the fallen grain,[12] thank you. As apples brown in the far corners of orchards and Halloween pumpkins rot on front steps, thank you. As dry, brown leaves decay on floors of New England woods and once proud stalks and vines and grasses join them, returning to dirt and dust and muck, thank you. As the cold increases, as a new quiet pervades, as a deep stillness rises and we come close to that simple something, thank you.
Thank you for this gift of life—this unimaginable, improbable gift of life—this life that contains so much joy and pleasure, so much pain and suffering—this exquisite life, this fragile life that is also resilient; this fleeting life that is also full; this fated life that is also free. This life—this one life we know we have—may we live it well.
And thank you for this gift of time—this unimaginable, improbable gift of time—this precious time, this sweet time, this fantastic time; our far-too-brief time upon this earth. May we spend this time well.
And thank you for all that sustains us in this life, in this time—our families, our friends, our lovers, our partners, our neighbors, our mentors, our colleagues, and all those who serve in some way; the fields, the farms, the orchards that yield a bountiful harvest, the animals whose flesh becomes meat, the reservoirs that hold and give water, the green life that yields oxygen; the poets, the singers, the dancers, the artists, the writers, the preachers, the philosophers, the teachers, the healers—all those whose life-work and vision touch our hearts and our souls and make us whole; the inner resources we find when there is nothing else, the inner strength, the patience, the endurance, the persistence, the faith, the trust, the will to meet whatever challenges we must meet. May we use these sustaining resources well.
Friends, once again, we arrive in the brown season, a season between seasons, the time before winter. On this day of arrival, no matter what forces conspire to keep us distant from the earth, callous towards the earth, fearful of the earth and all its wild things; no matter what forces conspire to instill in us a desire to keep our hands clean, let us find some way to embrace the dark, brown earth; let us find some way to touch the dark, brown earth; let us find some way to offer thanks to the dark, brown earth; let us find some way to work and play in the dark, brown earth. Let us find some way to love the dark, brown earth. And let us come close to that something simpler than we could ever believe.
Thank you dark, brown earth. Thank you.
Amen and Blessed.
[1] Roethke, Theodore, “Now Light Is Less” Singing the Living Tradition (Boston: Beacon Press and the UUA, 1993) #54.
[2] Ungar, Lynn, “Thanksgiving,” Blessing the Bread (Boston: Skinner House, 1996) p. 13.
[3] Ungar, “Thanksgiving,” p. 13.
[4]Merwin, W. S., “Just Now,” in Keillor, Garrison, ed., Good Poems for Hard Times (New York: Penguin Books, 2005) p. 289.
[5] Merwin, “Just Now,” p. 289.
[6] Merwin, “Just Now,” p. 289.
[7] Merwin, “Just Now,” p. 289.
[8]Merwin, “Just Now,” p. 289.
[9] Roethke, Theodore, “Now Light Is Less,” #54.
[10] Roethke, Theodore, “Now Light Is Less,” #54.
[11] Roethke, Theodore, “Now Light Is Less,” #54.
[12] Ungar, “Thanksgiving,” p. 13.
