Every year, the arrival of October brings with it a sense of simultaneous renewal and shedding of old skin. No matter how many years go by, it always comes as a surprise: ah! This is how it feels to be in my element. I’d almost forgotten.
October swoops in on the heels of summer, which I’ve accepted by now to be my reverse-hibernation season. Whether this is healthy or not, my natural inclination during the summer is to hide away from the blaring light and heat, the commotion of people coming and going, traveling and performing, and simply ride it out as best I can. Call me a lightweight, but I’m never at my best during the summer.
And then the sun starts setting earlier and earlier, the light angling differently through the trees. The air changes ever so slightly and I feel like I can get a deep, full breath again. Before I know it, something’s shifting inside of me, too. New space opens up for reflection and creativity where there had been none for months on end. October issues me the renewed invitation to re-evaluate what I would like to hold onto and what I would like to let go of. Some Octobers, I find there’s a lot more to let go of than I had anticipated.
Not a soul among us has gotten out of 2020 and 2021 without enduring major upheaval of some sort. Going into 2022, I knew better than to expect the dust to settle, allowing me to get on with the life I had anticipated. I knew better, but I held onto that expectation anyway, ignoring the sinking feeling that change wasn’t through with me yet. Lo and behold, 2022 brought perhaps the biggest change of all in the form of this new position at Belmont. As I settle in there, I feel as if my hands—which had grown used to carrying all kinds of hopes, fears, and responsibilities—are now both pleasantly and achingly empty. Do I even remember how to move through the world empty-handed? After having adapted so thoroughly to the chronic strain of expectation-management (my own and that of others), is it possible to re-adapt to the lack of that strain? What will I do with all that extra space? Is it okay to be bored sometimes?
Pause for a moment as I insert wisdom from Barbara Brown Taylor. Years ago I read a book of hers called Learning to Walk in the Dark, and even as I type this sentence, I wonder if the main reason I read that book then was so that I could remember having read it and decide to pick it up again now. (Have you ever had that experience with a book before?) The key idea I remember most clearly is her articulation of the dominant form of American spirituality as “full solar.” Perhaps summed up most bluntly by the song “Keep on the Sunny Side,” the vast majority of spiritual language, ritual, and story inundates us with “sunny” metaphors, emphasizing at all costs the light that shines in the darkness, the coming Kingdom where there will be no more need for the sun because God’s light will illuminate all things, a God whose first words are “let there be light.”
Don’t get me wrong—that language is beautiful. It’s my inheritance. I have deep affection for it (“Be Thou My Vision” will always make me teary-eyed). But full solar spirituality of course has its shadow side. When the only language you ever use for faith revolves entirely around light dispelling darkness, what do you do with the darkness in your own life? Is it simply a case of having not been swallowed up by the light yet, accompanied by a prescription for more patience? What about persistent, chronic darkness, the kind that you pray about every day, the kind that gnaws at you from the inside? Is there something wrong with you if that darkness never sees God’s light? It certainly can’t be God’s fault, right? Maybe you’re just too sinful or don’t want the light badly enough?
I’m sure you see where this is going: live with that narrative long enough and the shadows will gain undue power over you. You’ll tuck them away and pretend they’re not there, only to feel them exert the largest, quietest influence of all over your sun-drenched life. Loneliness, shame, and fear will fester. Your solar spirituality will leave you no choice but to believe that you’re the problem, you are the darkness.
(Side note: the saddest part of this is that there’s a wealth of metaphor available to us through the ages for faith and spirituality revolving around darkness. The Cloud of Unknowing, anyone? What about the dark night of the soul? What about Jacob wrestling God in the dead of the night and receiving the name of Israel?)
All of this being said, I seem to have received an invitation to take a walk in the dark in the coming months. The past few years of my life have taken place largely in the sun, marked by productivity and growth, a modest, Drew-sized amount of ambition, and a deep leaning into activity. It’s been a while since I’ve last walked in the dark, and it feels a bit awkward, to be honest. I’m not quite sure yet how much I’ll be hanging onto and how much I’ll be letting go of. I’m reminded of an old Coldplay lyric: “The wheels just keep on turning / The drummer begins to drum / I don’t know which way I’m going / I don’t know who I’ll become.”
If you find yourself in a similar position, then here’s my wish for you. I hope that, unsure as you may feel about pretty much everything, you can rest assured that opening yourself up fully to seasons of change is the best posture you can take in this life. I hope you can rest assured that God doesn’t need you to be sure about him in order to carry on being God. And finally, I hope you can just rest.
What I’ve been reading:
Maybe You Should Talk to Someone by Lori Gottlieb: Written by a therapist, recounting her experience both giving and receiving therapy in the context of her life story, this memoir is equal parts hilarious, heart-wrenching, and filled to the brim with insight. It’s one of those rare books that doesn’t feel too emotionally heavy to pick up and read casually, and yet you’ll always walk away from it with something profound to ponder.
What I’ve been watching:
Derry Girls, Season 3: Words cannot describe the depth of my adoration for this series. The story follows a group of teenage girls growing up in Northern Ireland in the 90s during the Troubles, attending an all-girls Catholic school. I remember Stephen Colbert saying that Irish comedy is “funny, sad, and funny about being sad.” Derry Girls is the essence of that last phrase: on the surface, it’s all melodramatic teenage mishaps, but whenever the show zooms out and highlights its context, the humor and the sadness mingle and put the growth of the characters front and center. The first two seasons were brilliant, but Season 3 takes the show into altogether new territory, and it’s marvelous to behold.
What I’ve been listening to:
“The Fading” by Joan Shelley: If you could use a theme song for the thoughts I’ve shared in this newsletter about the combined pain and liberation of letting go and shedding old skin, give this one a listen. Favorite verse: “I saw the river thick with mud break through the banks and run / And I confess I liked it, I cheered the flood when the waters hit the walls and won”
View With A Room by Julian Lage: Exquisitely composed, lovingly performed, cleanly recorded jazz trio music (plus an extra guitar for periodic flourishes). Julian Lage is a master of his craft, and I just adore his musicianship. These songs are so inviting, you’ll want to take a bath in them.
Midnights by Taylor Swift: As “Anti-Hero” came to a close on my first listen in the car, I realized I had tears in my eyes—not necessarily because of the subject matter, although there’s plenty to dig through there, but as a physical reaction to how freaking good the song is. Taylor Swift knows how to play the game: she’s opportunistic and can absolutely dominate the music scene according to her whims, but it’s because she’s just so terribly good at what she does. Standout tracks for me, in addition to “Anti-Hero,” are “Snow on the Beach,” “You’re On Your Own Kid,” and “Sweet Nothing.”
Until next time, friends & neighbors.
-Drew
Thanks for the post, very pleasant reading, especially as I finished reading to the peaceful vibes of Julin Lage. Excellent turn-on...
You have described my relationship with Summer and my affection for Fall perfectly here!