On Ebbs And Flows
In the Autumn, the trees begin to thin out, their leaves turning yellow, red and brown, before surrendering to the breeze, finally coming to rest and returning to the earth. What the tree loses to the soil it regains in spring, when its newly fertilized roots feed the new growth up above. Fresh green buds appear and what was lost a season or two ago returns stronger, brighter, more vibrant than before.
This perfect cycle of growth and surrender and growth and surrender keeps the world turning. The sun sets in order that the moon may rise in its place, before returning the compliment in the morning. The tide ebbs so that it may flow again. Like the tick tock of the passing of time, this is the natural way of things. The Tao. Inescapable. Immaculate. Gracefully balanced.
And we are part of this rhythm, too.
We are to nature as leaves are to the tree. Not separate, but intrinsically connected to the dance of the planets, to the seasons, the rise of the sun and the setting of the moon. We try to convince ourselves otherwise, but we are unmistakably animal, undeniably natural, irrefutably compost for the next season of growth. This is our part in the dance of the solar system, the galaxy and the universe, to which we are so inextricably connected.
Unlike the robots that we’ve engineered to build our cars, we are organic matter. Unlike the software we’ve designed to operate our computers, our program changes with each run cycle. We get tired, we become emotional, we are wabi sabi personified. Each of us uniquely flawed, each of us uniquely magical, each of us uniquely unpredictable.
And as we awake into each new day, we understand the framework that we step into, but we cannot be quite sure what lies ahead for us. We know that it will be 24 hours long, but we don’t know with absolute certainty whether it will be sunny or cloudy. Whether it will rain or be dry. Whether the phone will ring or whether it won’t.
We know that tomorrow is Saturday, or Sunday, or Monday, but we don’t know whether that will be good day or a bad day. A happy day or a melancholy day. A day where we’re on top of the world, or when the world will get on top of us. A day where all the things we do to keep our head above the water will help us to get into flow, or whether our tide will ebb out to sea.
Some days we flow. Some days it’s a low ebb. We aren’t the robots that build our cars. We are immaculately flawed. We are analogue units. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. An experience that can be joyful, where we revel in the sunshine and play in the dappled light. We can smell the roses, and stare in wonder at the trees as they sway in the breeze, surrendering their leaves to the Autumnal wind.
Or the experience can be heavy and laden with difficulty. Sadness and melancholy. Regret and uncertainty. We wake up in a fog of emotions that are difficult to decipher, to tackle and face.
We are human, and that is the way it is.
We can engage in our practice. To be healthy and well and wise and prepared, to bring more sunny days than cloudy. But we can never avoid the cloudy days altogether.
Those robots that build our cars, they never have cloudy days. Each day is exactly the same. Perfect in every way. But it is neither sunny nor cloudy. It is precisely the same as yesterday and it will be exactly the same tomorrow. But for us, while tomorrow might be predictably Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday, we will be unpredictably, wonderfully human.
This is what it is to be alive. This is what it is to dance like the falling leaf on the breeze. We ebb and we flow, and we must take comfort in both, no matter how joyous, no matter how melancholy, because it means that we are living and breathing and feeling, and connected to the Earth, the Sun, the Moon, and everything beyond.
We are human and that is the way it is.