Resisting the urge to run from impermanence 🍁
It’s hard to see the bigger picture from the forest floor. 🌳
I sat by the window to write in my journal earlier this week. For nearly anyone who lives here or visits, it’s the enviable spot in the house, where a long chaise allows you to stretch your legs and a large window opens to views of the mountains, forest, and plentiful bird life.
Between sentences, I gazed up at the grey October sky and the peaks, recently dusted with snow. Suddenly, a gust of wind tore through the forest, stripping leaves off the aspen that stands prominently off the back porch. A part of me felt sad to watch Winter move in so unapologetically. Part of me admired its fierceness. This is just the way things are, Meghan.
The browning leaves flew from the aspen and eventually settled somewhere on the forest floor. That morning, sitting in “the spot” by the window, I reflected on the unseen processes at play; that those dead leaves would decompose and recycle nutrients back into the soil, that new life would eventually spring from the rotting material.
I know this is true and yet it’s hard to accept, even though I’ve been observing these processes for some 39 years. I understand this intellectually. Emotionally, it feels unwelcome, concerning, even terrifying. It rails against my desire to create and grow — to reap a continual harvest. It whispers about the uncomfortable truth that Death is a part of Life. And yet, I hear it all the time: to everything, there is a season.
Of course, I’m not only talking about leaves here. 🍂
As I write this, this theme has threaded itself into circumstances both micro and macro. I see global conflicts playing out with no sense of what will rise from the ashes or loss of life. I hear my kindergartner asking big questions that I’m not sure how to answer. I feel my body shifting and changing as I approach middle age. I’m watching not only the leaves but also the landscape transform before my eyes.
I question who I can be in this world and whether my particular gifts are enough to help us through the fallow seasons. The rotting phase.
I question what my place is in all of this and how I can be present amid the impermanence. Because my instinct is to run, usually into a project — anything to distract me from the feeling that I’m not doing enough. That I am not enough.
The truth is, I’ve struggled to piece this newsletter together for you because I am unsure about what I can say that will have any real meaning or value. I browse through my Substack1 reader and see that this platform, like many others before it, has become saturated with individuals striving to fill every niche available. I think this is ultimately a good thing — humans need diverse perspectives — but causes me to question what my own niche is. Social media has seen a quick decline in both engagement and a sense of community, leaving me flailing every time I scroll or post. At times it feels like the shouting match has moved from the algorithmic goop we were all swimming in (back) to the blog/newsletter sphere, where subject lines are competing for people’s attention. For this reason, I want my content to be of value to people and worth their time spent reading.
My niche here on Field Notes has been My Life As I Know and Experience It. I can’t tell you about cutting-edge developments in a particular field, nor provide a thoughtful analysis of events in the news. I don’t have the time (at the moment) to provide cultural commentary that requires hours of research, nor do I have the desire to shift into some kind of DIY, how-to content. During this complex, confusing, at times heartbreaking, and often delightful time we live in, what I can offer you is my perspective, and as close to “how to” as I get: my field notes for navigating through it.
The deeper truth is that these days I’m feeling lost in the woods, like I’m a leaf that’s fallen from the tree and ended up there on the forest floor, away from the place where I once grew and burst with vitality. No, this is not depression. I’m just aware that I was “up there,” by which I mean I had a clear sense of purpose for a while, and now I’m “down here” toiling away with ideas and wanting to make a contribution but not sure what that should be.
It’s hard to see the bigger picture from the forest floor. But I feel compelled to pause and give this serious consideration, which of course is going against every urge I have to run.
Although I’m uncertain about the world at large, I know, deep down, that in my own circumstances, there will be new life springing forth, that something beautiful will come from this feeling that the projects I’ve invested in have cycled into Winter. This is what I am manifesting these days. It’s also not lost on me that part of my contribution to this wild world is to raise my children to be defenders of love and peace, and humans who care for others and our planet. I often talk about creative projects when I am also investing in people who are living and breathing in my very own home, often vying for “the spot” by the window. 🙂
In closing, here is my offering, call it a prayer:
May there be goodness in the imperceptible. May my contributions meet people exactly where they are meant to intersect. And may impermanence be the blessing I don’t know to ask for.
Meghan J. Ward is an outdoor, travel and adventure writer based in Banff, Canada, a Fellow of the Royal Canadian Geographical Society, and the author of Lights to Guide Me Home. Meghan has written several books, as well as produced content for films, anthologies, blogs and some of North America’s top outdoor, fitness and adventure publications.
What’s caught my attention lately… ✨
Currently reading, in no particular order:
Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice from Dear Sugar, by Cheryl Strayed: If you love the podcast (or column) Dear Sugar, you’ll also enjoy this.
The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness and Healing in a Toxic Culture, by Dr. Gabor Maté: This is a huge book, so if you need an intro to Dr. Maté’s work first, go find a podcast to listen to. His words might be life-changing for you.
These Mountains Are Our Sacred Places: The Story of the Stoney People; by Chief John Snow. Essential reading for those who dwell in the Canadian Rockies if you want an Indigenous perspective on their pre-contact history and impacts of Treaty 7.
Check these out too… 🙌
Lights to Guide Me Home: A Journey Off the Beaten Track in Life, Love, Adventure and Parenting - my memoir (reviews welcome on Amazon and Goodreads)
The Wonders That I Find - my children’s book
My Email Newsletter - updates about my books, projects, and 1:1 coaching
I say this, but I am a big fan of Substack and what it’s doing for writers. It’s become a much-valued resource for community connection, thoughtful discussions, and for some writers, the income they both need and deserve. If you’re looking to spend less time on social media, I highly recommend you take a look at what’s happening on Substack.