Windblown

Leaves are gathering under the trees once more, and until the wind scatters them across the countryside they will lie there, en masse, as though each leaf looks up in awe at the tree which had given it life. The stillness of some of these autumn days makes the falling of leaves an audible experience; not something we would usually anticipate from what is, for us, a predominantly visual experience, but which can cause us to turn in surprise when a dry leaf from an Ash slowly ricochets down through twigs and branches on its way to the ground in an otherwise silent world. Each has its own tune, from the almost silent shower of Birch leaves to the stiff ticking sound of Beech as each leaf seems to proudly proclaim its intention to remain un-rotted throughout the coming winter. Not only to those who are out and about in the countryside, but also to people strolling in the park, or round their own gardens, leaves have contributed to a full orchestra of voices from the first greening of the hedgerows to the final shedding of their un-greened and crinkled forms.
Thomas Hardy’s tale, Under The Greenwood Tree, begins with an expression of this fact: ‘To dwellers in a wood, almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature. At the passing of the breeze, the fir trees sob and moan no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its flat boughs rise and fall.’

Within the next few weeks I shall have a large pile of leaves in a corner of the garden, raked up from the grass when the trees are almost bare. Even in springtime and through the summer, I frequently picture the view leading up to that time, with the leaves being blown from the trees to fly briefly before dancing along the ground until caught and held by some snag or barrier, muddy hollow or puddle. It is a picture which conveys to me a paradoxical message of movement and activity in response to the guidance of a power greater than myself, while always carrying the blessings of peace and quiet joy. I do not need to see the leaves to be reminded, but the message is there whenever I walk from the house. Similar scenes are available to all of us almost everywhere throughout the autumn, but I find this meaning only where I am able to take time out to look and to become, as it were, part of the scene. This makes home the obvious place to appreciate the experience.

Picturing this flurry of leaves always leads me into the memory of another similar scene from nearly twenty years ago; again, in a place where I spent much time and could pause every day to appreciate what was happening beyond the window. Here, I was looking beyond the garden boundary into the grounds of a school for children with special needs. The school itself was almost out of sight at the top of a small hill, though the sounds of children in the playground would drift down to me on the breeze.
I remember being struck by that sound one autumn day when all seemed well with the world, and the shouts and laughter combined to produce an effect that was so obviously joyful in the known circumstances, but in isolation was in fact a noise; not joyful, not anything: just a noise. And then, momentarily, I heard that noise differently. The sound was the same but the circumstances seemed changed utterly; the shouts became screams and the laughter turned to cries of grief and terror. The change was real enough to have me searching the skyline for the reassurance of children running into and out of view at the edge of their playground. They were there. All was well.

The experience lasted for only a few seconds but left me wondering; what if something terrible suddenly occurred up there and the sounds were of anguish and horror? How long would it be before anyone at my distance from those children realized anything was wrong? The noises seemed frighteningly similar. Thankfully I have never been witness to any of the dreadful occurrences the world has seen and continues to see; perhaps the differences between the sounds would be all too obvious to me if I had, but those few moments taught me how easily we can presume that all is well – in almost any situation – when in fact it is not.
The enduring image here is of the leaves on that windy day being blown down the slope towards me, like hundreds of children running, jumping and dancing across the grass. The wind blew the sounds from the playground to me louder than usual, and as my hearing of them changed from quiet pleasure to deep concern, so the happily dancing leaves changed to terrified and panic-stricken children fleeing from heaven only knew what.

I have been reminded of these images by words in an article by Charles Whitehead in the September/October 2008 edition of Good News magazine. Writing on discernment, he says, ‘If it is God’s Holy Spirit at work, then I want to be inspired, blessed, touched, and empowered by what is happening. But if not, then I need to be protected from being “blown here and there by every wind of teaching and by the cunning and craftiness of men in their deceitful scheming” (Ephesians 4:14), or, even worse, being lead astray by the lies and strategies of Satan and his demons.’

Learning to distinguish truth and falsehood in our lives, and discerning our direction and the genuine calls on our time, our support, and our action, helps us to know when all is well and when it is not. It not only keeps us from being “blown here and there by every wind ...”, but enables us to recognize dangers and the presence of evil in even the most settled and apparently safe conditions and situations.
A great deal can happen, for good or ill, when we are relaxed, unconcerned, and generally at peace. A lowering of our barriers will allow us to be more open to seemingly good and plausible, but false, ideas from elsewhere, anywhere and everywhere, but will also make us more receptive to the work of the Holy Spirit within us. Knowing which is which is not as easy as we may think, especially if we expect all that is good to be comfortable, and all that is evil to present itself in the form of a struggle.

It is like a re-run of the leaves being blown down that grassy hill. Are the children shouting and laughing? Or are they screaming and crying? Do we make assumptions and switch off again? Do we hear them at all? Or do we focus, question, and discern before deciding that all is well? Before returning to the peace and the empty space we have created for ourselves?
A space which – if we are fortunate – will become similar to

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‘... the crucible of the desert, in which the soul ... is twisted and shaken like a leaf in the storm of the Spirit.’
(Carlo Carretto. Love is for Living.)
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