In Tennessee, the perpetual summer has finally given way to crisp fall mornings, days with a darkened hue, and leaves whose colors best Crayola. It is glorious. The cool air invites deep inhales, energizing us to get through each day. Part of the gift of Autumn is simply that it signals a change. In late spring, we welcome long hot days; in late summer, we beg for cool darkness. Too much of a good thing apparently is a thing.
Fall is my favorite season because I feel most alive and most grounded when I am outside. Put me near mountain water or the woods, and I become a contented optimist. Research has long proven that movement, activity, and immersion in nature are significantly linked to improved mental and physical functioning. Beyond the magical physiology that proves this to be true, one of the reasons outdoor activity lifts our gaze to the good is that it requires us to stop gazing at screens. Although I admit I have tried before, it is very difficult to hike a rooty trail with one’s eyes on a screen. Ill advised, indeed.
The pervasive influence of screens, like most innovations, has transformed the way we function for good and for bad. We are more productive, more convenienced, more connected to the far reaches of the globe. We are also more distracted, more overwhelmed, and less connected to those across the table from us. Our phones allow us to divide our attention, to prioritize the unimportant as urgent, and to make subtle, tiny choices all day that fracture our souls. Our teenagers’ circadian rhythms are thrown off as their faces are illuminated by screens late into the night, and our work life balance is perpetually off as we “just finish this real quick” while those we love wait for our attention.
While the ubiquity of phones steal our silence, our solitude, and our stillness from us, the presence of social media threatens our authentic understandings of what we value. An experience becomes valuable because we can film it, post it, and quantify its value through likes. A memory becomes forgettable if we don’t capture a picture or phrase that catches the love of our followers. Hoping to offer a snapshot of our lives in an effort to stay authentically connected, we have damaged our ability to claim our own value system, and instead surrender our agency and authenticity to the mob’s clicking proclivities.
How might we reclaim our sense of self, our agency, our time, our awareness of those around us (and the crucial context that brings)? Fall has brought us answers, so look to the leaves and learn. The lessons here are simple:
First, put your phone down and go outside. Spend an hour moving outdoors, undistracted by the brilliant connections offered through your phone.
This sounds simple, but we know it isn’t. It is hard to walk away from our phone, as holding it makes us feel secure and invulnerable. We cannot be overcome if we have access to a phone. Even more, it is hard to do a thing without being distracted. We have trained our brains, our hands, our relational selves and our intellect to be distracted every few minutes. Going outside when the world is showing off its most glorious self lifts our gaze away from self, away from cheap distractions, and away from others intent on dictating what we find valuable. The woods remind us that life is mysterious, that our perspective is inherently limited, and that time can move slowly and quickly, in a straight line or in circles. These observations are powerful in their ability to impact the rhythms of life that guide us.
Whether you have access to a state park or a small patch of green space, time in it is valuable. (If your daily path does not contain grass, try this: Change your perspective by lying down and looking up under or near a tree. Watch as your urban landscape turns into an expansive sky littered with dangling leaves. Transformation.)
Secondly, Fall teaches us to yield. The vibrant colors, the diminishing light and the dropping temperatures are gorgeous reminders that the world shuts down every winter. No created thing was made to live large forever; we must rest, even die. We are each made to yield, to surrender, to pause. The world presents a stunning tableau every Fall to remind us, even invite us, to recognize our need for rest. For silence, solitude and stillness.
Autumn beckons us to yield, to slow and let others pass. Fall reminds us that the act of surrender can be a gorgeous thing to behold, that we might do well to follow the lead of the world that lifts our gaze and heightens our hope for the crisp joy a day might bring. The current that carries most of us demands constant attention, distracted engagement, and complete—if divided—availability. We know this pace to be unsustainable, and yet we fail to hold on to alternative rhythms. The growth and beauty of spring only comes because of the devastating stillness of winter. Is it possible that this truth could be manifest in our own lives as well? If we commit to slowness, to stillness, to surrender, might we also find a season of deep restoration that leads to transformed growth?
As the world begins its dazzling death, I humbly commit to bear witness often, and to follow its lead by yielding to a slower pace, a surrendered presence, and a silent practice of stillness as I wait for renewal to come. Go outside, and let the natural world teach you that striving is not the only path forward. The earth teaches us another way, if we will pause and take note.
