A Time to Die

“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light.”—Earnest Hemingway

Can you feel it? That twinge in your heart only Autumn can bring. Maybe it’s the changing colors, the muted light, or the smell of burning leaves that at the same time conjures up the nostalgia of childhood with a foreshadowing of your own mortality. Whatever the reason, Fall is heartbreakingly melancholic. 

Before everything turns to gray, Nature, in a final act of flowering, flings her soul upon the growing gloom of Winter in colorful defiance. But hidden behind her closing act of beauty lies a startling truth: Creation is preparing to die. One by one, the bright leaves let go and fall to the earth. Yet their sacrifice is necessary, for without it the tree wouldn’t survive winter. Nature knows this. She is a willing participant in her own demise, realizing that in order to be reborn, die she must. 

“What part of me needs to die in order to be reborn?”

As one season flows into the next, Nature bears witness to the universal cycle of birth, growth, flourishing, dying, and rising. Each season has a wisdom to share. We do well to pay attention, realizing that our own lives will spiral through this cycle many times on life’s journey. In contrast, our mechanized culture promises perpetual Spring, an artificial life of continual growth and prosperity, conditioning us to believe the path forward is always upward. “People may spend their whole lives climbing the ladder of success only to find, once they reach the top, that the ladder is leaning against the wrong wall,” warns Trappist monk Thomas Merton. This is why most people never truly change, they just become more of what they’ve always been, stunted by success instead of being transformed through letting go.

Jesus tells us that “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone. But if it dies, it produces many others and yields a rich harvest.” He’s not only referencing His own impending death, He is also inviting us to walk the narrow way, that primal path of downward mobility leading to newness of life. 

As you witness the expected-yet-miraculous transformation of Nature this year, ask yourself: What part of me needs to die in order to be reborn? Like Nature herself, our lives would become bloated and weighed down without the seasonal putting to death of old ideas, beliefs, burdens, and relationships. Caitlin Mathews, author of The Celtic Spirit, writes, “When we investigate what is hindering our spiritual path, we often find that it is something we have been holding onto, rather than any external circumstance.”

We don’t think it’s a coincidence that in this Autumnal season, we’ve been faced with the reality that until we do the hard work of reorienting (or even cutting loose) relationships, habits, and beliefs, we will remain stagnant in our spiritual growth. Leaving toxic familiarity behind is a needful death, one we trust will lead to new life in the Spring of our journey. But for now we embrace a season of letting go, of true surrender. May we all willingly go down into the dark earth, carrying with us the promise of a bountiful harvest. 

A Practice

Spend five minutes writing down everything you do during a normal day from morning to night, paying particular attention to where God is and is not present in your daily routine. Your list should be exhaustive but not complicated. Are you willing to let go of or even “put to death” those things in order to pursue spiritual renewal? What are you clinging to that naturally needs to fall away and die?

NOTE: This was originally published in our bi-weekly e-newsletter, Liminal Spaces. To get future issues delivered to your inbox, sign up here.