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| Sunlight Through Yosemite Trees |
The change is a borderland—an in-between place, neither here nor there. At the border the old is reluctantly left behind; the new embraced—sometimes hesitantly. Yet, the new is enticing, with a hint of danger.
Anyone who has crossed a border knows it. People at borders are on edge. Eyes move more quickly. Pockets and bags are checked more frequently. To each side of the border is a borderland. The Holy Island of Lindisfarne is in the borderland between Scotland and England. Over the centuries the border shifted between the two counties. The borders have a special feel. Borderlands develop their own music and stories.
I read recently Derek Lundy's Borderlands: Riding the Edge of America. His three closest friends all died within a few months of each other. Lundy, a Canadian, felt the need to do something, find some space, do some reflection. He decided to ride a motorcycle along the U.S. borders with Mexico and Canada to examine the American obsession, post 9/11, with security. The book is well worth a read if only for Lundy's insights into U.S., Mexican and Canadian history at the margins. What fascinated me was that he found a borderlands north and south—in-between places, neither Mexican or American, neither Canadian or American. Strange places.
The change of seasons is just such a borderland. Preparations are made to move from the old and familiar to the new and uncertain. I spent yesterday clearing the garden, mulching leaves, storing the summer furniture, making sure there was enough brushwood for fire-starting, checking the woodpile that will take us through the winter. Change was in the air—in the sense of things. Yet it's not something I could point to directly, just a "something." Perhaps not all can perceive it. Maybe I imagined it, but I don't think so.
It's not surprising to me that the ancient Celtic peoples recognized the change at this time of year. Samhain marks the change. Summer's end, but not yet quite winter.
This borderland is a thin place, especially this border, particularly this time of year. It is the border between the now and the not-yet, between life and death, between the seen and the unseen. All Hallows Eve, the Christians called it—All Saints day followed by All Souls Day. We remember those who have gone before, those who have passed through the veil. And for these few days the veil is gossamer thin.
St. Benedict (Rule 4:47) urged his monks, "day by day remember that you are going to die." Death is something most of us would rather not think about. It is perhaps the last great taboo of our culture. Yet, some say that those who dwell on their own death become free from death's grip. Fear is overcome, and, strangely, life is enriched.
Death is the great returning. The body returns to earth, continuing the cycle of life, nourishing other bodies. The spirit returns to God who gave it, one again with the great Oneness. Nothing to fear—a borderland.
Samhain, All Saints, All Souls give us a yearly reminder to follow St. Benedict's advice, to ponder our own death, to make ready. Enter and enjoy the season. It lasts but a short time.
+Ab. Andy