Surely in leaving, a leaf must fall and in falling, must let go of itself as it once was, and in letting go, must become a formless form of someone else.
I've been reading again for the fourth or fifth time one of my all time favorite books, called "Learning to Fall", written by a man, Philip Simmons, who is dying from ALS, which he got diagnosed at age 35 and was given only a few years to live. He ended up living about 10 more years, and during that time wrote this book; a collection of essays written beautifully and poignantly and with great wisdom and humor. So, rather than expound on my thoughts of what "falling" means, I'm going to quote Philip as he expresses it beautifully. "Think of falling as a figure of speech. We fall on our faces, we fall for a joke, we fall for someone, we fall in love. In each of these falls, what do we fall away from? We fall from ego, we fall from our carefully constructed identities, our reputations, our precious selves. We fall from ambition, we fall from grasping, we fall from reason. And what do we fall into? We fall into passion, into terror, into unreasoning joy. We fall into humility, into compassion, into emptiness, into oneness with forces larger than ourselves. We fall, at last, into the presence of the sacred, into godliness, into mystery, into our better, diviner natures." He finishes with this: "We are all, all of us, falling. We are all, now this moment, in the midst of that descent, fallen from heights that may now seem only a dimly remembered dream, falling toward a depth we can only imagine, glimpsed beneath the water's surface shimmer. And so let us pray that if we are falling from grace, dear God let us also fall with grace, to grace. If we are falling toward pain and weakness, let us also fall toward sweetness and strength. If we are falling toward death (as he is), let us also fall toward life." Perhaps you can see from his words, why he speaks to me so well. Hopefully to you too Renée.
So beautiful, Renee! Thank you! I had the pleasure of visiting one of New Mexico's few waterfalls this weekend and as I watched it, I swear I could feel its longing. The water perpetually falling with outstretched arms, always reaching for its beloved. Your words here brought that image back to mind. And they also reminded me of a childhood memory (that I'd forgotten but is now very vivid). I was in school and we were being taught about gravity. Ignoring whatever else the teacher was saying, I had a full body flash of knowing that gravity is the way the earth shows she loves us. Maybe falling is all about entering that embrace.
When I read your words about feeling the water longing, reaching for the beloved, my whole body responded. Such an exquisite perception and felt sense.
Your little girl self had much more to know about and later offer to the world than what the teacher was insisting. Thank god! What a gift “that gravity is the way the earth shows she loves us. Maybe falling is all about entering that embrace.” Then, let us learn to fall.
I've been thinking about gravity a lot lately, especially at night when I typically awaken for a few hours. (Thank you transitioning hormones!) When I feel drawn to hug a loved one or pull my kitties close, I like to think it's born from the same force as gravity—the earth pulling us into her embrace. As I lay on my back and imagine the earth drawing me in for a hug, my body gets heavier, my nervous system deepening into the warmth of my first embrace. Your exploration of "falling" is such a beautiful companion to my own reflections!
I’m so drawn to the comfort in gravity and longing to feel close, for physical touch--“the earth pulling us into her embrace.” So beautiful. So much to contemplate here. A felt sense we know deep down in the marrow of our being and . . . (words don’t come).
I've never thought about the falling of the leaves. The actual falling part, which means they leave one formation and become another. I appreciate the way you pulled this all together Renee, especially that you began with the wind. Our valley will hold autumn in all her splendid glory until Mother Wind pays a visit and we are transformed by a shifting energy that tells us to wait. She has not yet arrived to this part of the world so, for now, the leaves are still decorating the trees as a reminder of days gone by.
I remember the leaves beginning to golden when I was there some weeks ago. I can only imagine the splendor now, and then the wind will come, ushering in winter, telling you to "wait." Lovely.
This reflection has ‘Left’ me emptied, quieted, peaceful. A Sunday morning meditation. I don’t remain in this state for nearly long enough. My mind is invited to play with the etymology of words, an invitation that you Renee call forth. I like that the word ‘leave’ holds paradox. To ‘leave’ can also mean to leave something as it is. To leaven, to rise and lighten.
Nevertheless, it is the phenomenological reduction you guide us to. The silence of self.
You offer us something for further fruitful reflection here apropos this linguistic word play, which is "To 'leave' can also mean to leave something as it is." As in, to let be.
The passages quoted above by Tomberg lead us to enstatic depths. He, then, points us to ecstatic heights--a vertical contemplative axis. We could say then that the phenomenological reduction is the axis around which the hermeneutic spiral turns and turns, silence of self the within of the reduction. Tomberg refers to a "zone of perpetual silence."
Thank you for this, Megan. The essence of what you offer may surface again in this series or another.
One of the most sublime moments as a writer is experiencing the reader enjoying the nuance in the writing. Thank you for your astute read and kind words.
I've been reading again for the fourth or fifth time one of my all time favorite books, called "Learning to Fall", written by a man, Philip Simmons, who is dying from ALS, which he got diagnosed at age 35 and was given only a few years to live. He ended up living about 10 more years, and during that time wrote this book; a collection of essays written beautifully and poignantly and with great wisdom and humor. So, rather than expound on my thoughts of what "falling" means, I'm going to quote Philip as he expresses it beautifully. "Think of falling as a figure of speech. We fall on our faces, we fall for a joke, we fall for someone, we fall in love. In each of these falls, what do we fall away from? We fall from ego, we fall from our carefully constructed identities, our reputations, our precious selves. We fall from ambition, we fall from grasping, we fall from reason. And what do we fall into? We fall into passion, into terror, into unreasoning joy. We fall into humility, into compassion, into emptiness, into oneness with forces larger than ourselves. We fall, at last, into the presence of the sacred, into godliness, into mystery, into our better, diviner natures." He finishes with this: "We are all, all of us, falling. We are all, now this moment, in the midst of that descent, fallen from heights that may now seem only a dimly remembered dream, falling toward a depth we can only imagine, glimpsed beneath the water's surface shimmer. And so let us pray that if we are falling from grace, dear God let us also fall with grace, to grace. If we are falling toward pain and weakness, let us also fall toward sweetness and strength. If we are falling toward death (as he is), let us also fall toward life." Perhaps you can see from his words, why he speaks to me so well. Hopefully to you too Renée.
Wow Ed, thank you for sharing. I will be looking for this book.
I love seeing this kind of sharing here in this space. Thank you, Donna, for offering this to Ed and all of us.
Dear Ed,
I do see why he speaks to you.
If I attempted to speak further to what you have shared, I would have nothing of significance to offer. I thank you for sharing.
With love,
Renée
So beautiful, Renee! Thank you! I had the pleasure of visiting one of New Mexico's few waterfalls this weekend and as I watched it, I swear I could feel its longing. The water perpetually falling with outstretched arms, always reaching for its beloved. Your words here brought that image back to mind. And they also reminded me of a childhood memory (that I'd forgotten but is now very vivid). I was in school and we were being taught about gravity. Ignoring whatever else the teacher was saying, I had a full body flash of knowing that gravity is the way the earth shows she loves us. Maybe falling is all about entering that embrace.
Ohhhhh!!! I want to hug that little girl with affirmation!!!! Love our shared realizations Jenna.:)
Me too!!!
Me too! Hugging that little girl and shared realizations!
Jenna,
When I read your words about feeling the water longing, reaching for the beloved, my whole body responded. Such an exquisite perception and felt sense.
Your little girl self had much more to know about and later offer to the world than what the teacher was insisting. Thank god! What a gift “that gravity is the way the earth shows she loves us. Maybe falling is all about entering that embrace.” Then, let us learn to fall.
With love,
Renée
I've been thinking about gravity a lot lately, especially at night when I typically awaken for a few hours. (Thank you transitioning hormones!) When I feel drawn to hug a loved one or pull my kitties close, I like to think it's born from the same force as gravity—the earth pulling us into her embrace. As I lay on my back and imagine the earth drawing me in for a hug, my body gets heavier, my nervous system deepening into the warmth of my first embrace. Your exploration of "falling" is such a beautiful companion to my own reflections!
Oh goodness, Kim, I just made a very similar comment about gravity! 💖💖💖
Kimberly,
I’m so drawn to the comfort in gravity and longing to feel close, for physical touch--“the earth pulling us into her embrace.” So beautiful. So much to contemplate here. A felt sense we know deep down in the marrow of our being and . . . (words don’t come).
With love,
Renée
I've never thought about the falling of the leaves. The actual falling part, which means they leave one formation and become another. I appreciate the way you pulled this all together Renee, especially that you began with the wind. Our valley will hold autumn in all her splendid glory until Mother Wind pays a visit and we are transformed by a shifting energy that tells us to wait. She has not yet arrived to this part of the world so, for now, the leaves are still decorating the trees as a reminder of days gone by.
Donna,
I remember the leaves beginning to golden when I was there some weeks ago. I can only imagine the splendor now, and then the wind will come, ushering in winter, telling you to "wait." Lovely.
With love,
Renée
This reflection has ‘Left’ me emptied, quieted, peaceful. A Sunday morning meditation. I don’t remain in this state for nearly long enough. My mind is invited to play with the etymology of words, an invitation that you Renee call forth. I like that the word ‘leave’ holds paradox. To ‘leave’ can also mean to leave something as it is. To leaven, to rise and lighten.
Nevertheless, it is the phenomenological reduction you guide us to. The silence of self.
Dear Megan,
You offer us something for further fruitful reflection here apropos this linguistic word play, which is "To 'leave' can also mean to leave something as it is." As in, to let be.
The passages quoted above by Tomberg lead us to enstatic depths. He, then, points us to ecstatic heights--a vertical contemplative axis. We could say then that the phenomenological reduction is the axis around which the hermeneutic spiral turns and turns, silence of self the within of the reduction. Tomberg refers to a "zone of perpetual silence."
Thank you for this, Megan. The essence of what you offer may surface again in this series or another.
With love,
Renée
Your every description layers upon the next as the newly fallen leaves cover those that will soon return from whence they came. Perfection.
Dear Peggy,
One of the most sublime moments as a writer is experiencing the reader enjoying the nuance in the writing. Thank you for your astute read and kind words.
With love,
Renée