Jeweled Woods

It is immeasurably convenient for us that the year is separated in light and darkness. Unless you are at the equator, the night dominates October through March, and the day reigns from April through September. The spring and summer are ideal for starting new projects, growing existing ideas, and preparing for the harvest of our labors. The fall and winter are dedicated to reaping those bounties, reflection, and rest as we prepare to enter the cycle once more.

The cooler, rainier weather beckons deep introspection. This inward gaze demands we examine the ups and downs of the past year. It’s been a good year for me. I’ve accomplished more than I ever thought possible. I have little to complain about. But, like everyone, there are things I sincerely wish could have gone better.

Any honest person could come up with quite a few items of regret. I could fill a legal pad, no doubt, but one thing that happened roughly a year ago sticks out in my mind this October. The change of season reminds me of what was lost. As I contemplate the year, I’d like to share an experience of mine. The names and particulars are omitted.

One of the perils of the age of information is that the context of our typed words is often lost. It is this precise oversight that let slip a casual comment on the polarity of our world, and that comment hurt someone. I spoke the truth, as I saw it, and, with most off-the-cuff remarks, I gave it little thought. My principal mistake was not exercising greater discernment with my words.

The comment related to the concept of excess polarity. The love and light crowds of new age spiritualists are quite popular these days, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that at a surface level. But, if you dig deeper, the denial of shadow–the focus on exclusively good things without confronting our demons, can be horrendously toxic.

Most would agree that too much darkness leads to chaos and depravity. But many have not considered that too much light can be just as bad. Zealotry, haughtiness, and willful ignorance to problems are evils all their own. In pointing this out on some meme I have since long forgotten, the assumption was made my words were aimed at my dear friend.

They weren’t, but it didn’t matter. It started a chain reaction that ended the friendship. I don’t regret the message I felt compelled to share–that too much of anything, even light, is bad, but I know it could have gone better. Like with any forest fire, there were tragic losses.

The forest fire, despite its devastation, clears out the old brush and makes room for growth. This is not to say my friend was old growth, but the fire, in this case, represents old patterns. Just as we can co-create with others, we can co-destroy. Sometimes we challenge ourselves, or perhaps unconsciously conspire with others, to spread flames so that we may someday see that new growth. We hope to see the beautiful blossom that sprouts from a seed miraculously spared from the fire.

We can look back at the forest and admire its beauty and treasure it for what it was–a friendly union of souls that briefly shared a path. And, if we’re lucky, we might catch a glimpse, in either one of us, those sprouts of knowledge and companionship we sowed.

That is the gift of destruction.

And so, as we ponder and marinate on the shadow on this dark half of the year, we learn from our mistakes and take stock of our lessons yet to learn.

What are your reflections on the past year? What mistakes have you made, and what do you hope to accomplish?

I hope you all have a blessed fall.

P.S. Like musings on all topics animal, vegetable, mineral, or philosophical? Check out Birgitte Rasine, a fellow writer who I met long ago on a radio show and who’s work I enjoy reading. I think you will, too.