Finitude, Focus, and Other Delicate Musings About Life

I leave leaves on my writing table–small ones that landed soft on my laptop last time I wrote in my front yard. They nestle next to pumpkin pistachio and it’s cheery woodwick flame. 

Fall.

I’m already ready, and it’s not even here. 

There’s a comforting conjunction of crisp and cozy that enters with autumn. A deliberate extension of the both/ands that offer hope along with the hard.

Perhaps you’re experiencing one of these tensions:

Grief and gratitude.

Failure and grace.

Pruning and peace.

Weariness and worship.

They fit like chilly air and the soft weight of a blanket. Chai tea and crunchy leaves. Bonfires and fewer daylight hours.

The presence of the one accentuates the joy of the other. If we forgo disruption and discomfort, falltime would lose its appeal. If we delay the progression towards decay, fall would have no color. If we dismiss the shift, we couldn’t tease our senses with fall scents and flavors.

Finitude-Entwined Tensions

Fall reminds me that what I see and feel in this moment is only partial perspective. It’s a blurred snapshot of something in motion.

Life isn’t frozen; it’s fluid.

Like the moon, most of what we know is either waxing or waning.

Careers.

Relationships.

Homes.

Health.

Faith.

Sometimes we hang on too tight as if we can force time to stay still. We want the quintessential sliver or the bold, full moon because it’s familiar. But often what’s preeminent must shrink and what begins small gains wings.

Both the lessening and the luxuriating are inescapable aspects of life. They’re intertwined, each making space for the other. In the finitude of time, every decrease makes allowance for something else to increase. Similarly, the swelling of one necessitates the diminishing of another. 

Summer makes way for fall, fall for winter, winter for spring, spring for summer, and the pattern reflects our own experience. Loss is both a grief-laced goodbye and the comfort of God in a palpable way. New roles and responsibilities come with decisions on how to divide our time differently. Friendships fade, and new ones flourish. Projects end, and new ones begin. 

In the midst of transition is a welcome truth: endings and beginnings can be friends.

The Call of Fall

As the sage author of Ecclesiastes emphasizes, life is fleeting. So when it comes to our focus, we have choices.

Fixate on the unfixable, the forgotten, and the futile, and you feed your discontentment. But focus on its counterpart in the both/and tension, and you stay afloat. 

Look around at the browning edges of grass, the sparse sprinkling of fallen leaves in the mulch, the flowers wilting on the stem, and you might see only leftovers. But listen for bird chatter harmonizing with the breeze, effortless laughter across the street, or the footfall of a neighbor walking her dog, and you see another side.

Freshly forged opportunities for connection and celebration.

The gift of more gracious weather. 

Permission to strive less and savor more.

The chance to reset.

With the slow unfolding of one season into the next comes freshness mixed with the familiar. Only in letting go can we fully lean in.

Perhaps that’s the call of fall, to focus on what’s right in front of us.

The front yard and the people who fill it.

The foyer, and the neighbors who walk through it.

The extra forks that accompany dinnertime chatter.

Comraderies and s’mores around the fire pit.

Planting Seeds

If you live in a quiet neighborhood and rarely see a soul, but you can’t ignore the nudge to get to know your neighbors, here’s where I’d encourage you to begin–spend a few minutes now and then in your front yard. Sit on your front step to sort through the mail. Lounge in a lawn chair and watch the leaves fall. Take your book or your work or playtime for your kids outside. Tend that flower bed. Acknowledge the cars driving past your house when you’re in the front yard.

At first it may feel silly and small, but consider each minute spent in your front yard to be a small seed. Seeds take time to grow. Let them. Focus on planting and let God handle the sprouting.

As an introvert who, for most of my life, knew very few neighbors by name, I now see what can transpire from simply being more visible to your neighbors. I’ve lost count of how many quick hellos grew into actual friendships–like the kind you text when you need an egg or someone to help you catch your puppy. The kind who lets you cry in their kitchen when grief can’t be kept at bay. The kind who sit shoulder to shoulder instead of letting differences force us apart. The kind who ride with you to Bible study. The kind who become like extended family.

To circle back to ampersands, we can pair opposites like

• Our loneliness and our front-yard lingering
• Our finitude and our focus
• Our fear and our faith

There’s beauty in the tensions, just as there is in the transition from summer to fall. Embrace the both/and as you take one baby step after another towards sharing life with your neighbors.

Let’s pray.

Lord, we look to You as we navigate the both/ands of our lives. Our finitude doesn’t force limitations on You. May we approach the waxing and waning components of life with Your wisdom and perspective. Teach us to trust You with our longings and our lack. Grow the seeds we plant with our time in our front yards. In Your name, Jesus, we pray. Amen.

Just a friend over here in your corner,

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