A Season’s Quiet Wisdom

In this episode, we read Mary Cornelia Hartshorn’s 1927 parable of seasons and survival and pair it with a brief breath practice. The poem reframes loss as groundwork for renewal and invites two simple questions to guide the week.

Transcript

Welcome And Seasonal Reflection

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Hello, and welcome to Breathe and Be. I'm Miriam, and I'm so glad you're here. Today's episode is a gentle reflection on the changing of seasons, not only in nature, but in our lives and histories. I decided to continue my Saturday poetry series with Fallen Leaves, an Indian grandmother's parable by Mary Cornelia Hartsorn, a poet of Choctaw descent. It was first published in the American Indian magazine in 1927. This poem carries the quiet wisdom of generations.

Guided Breath To Settle

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A reminder that even in loss, something is always preparing to rise again. Before we begin, take a slow breath in. Pause in a nice soft exhale.

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Many times in my life I have heard the white sages who are learned in the knowledge and lore of past ages. Speak of my people with pity, say, Gone is their hour of dominion. By the strong wind of progress, their power, like a rose past its brief time of blooming, lies shattered. Like the leaves of the oak tree, its people are scattered. This is the eighty-first autumn since I can remember. Again fall the leaves born in April and dead by December, riding the whimsied breeze, zigzagging and whirling, coming to earth at last, slowly upcurling, withered and sapless and brown into discarded fragments of what once was life, dry chattering parchments that crackle and rustle like old women's laughter. On the merciless wind with swift feet coming after will drive them before him with unsparring lashes till they are crumbled and crushed into forgotten ashes, crumpled and crushed and piled deep in the gulches and hollows, soft bed for the yet softer snow that in winter fast follows. But when in the spring the light falling, patter of raindrops persuading, insistently calling, wakens to life again forces that long months have slumbered, there will come whispering movement and green things unnumbered will pierce through the mold with their yellow green, sun searching fingers, fingers or spear tips grown tall will bud at another year's breaking. One day when the brooks manumitted by sunshine are making music like gold in the spring of some far off generation, and up from the long withered leaves, from the musty stagnation, life will climb high to the furthermost leaflets, the bursting of catkins asunder with greed for the sunlight, the thirsting of twisted brown roots for earth water, the gradual unfolding of brilliance, and the strength in the future Earth's bosom is holding. Today, in those scurrying leaves, soon to be crumpled and broken, let those who have ears hear my word and be still.

Quiet Afterglow And Reflection

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I have spoken. Take a moment to stay here in the quiet after her words.

Takeaways And Gentle Closing

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Notice your breath, how it rises and falls, how life continues this gentle rhythm through you. Mary Cornelia Hartshorn's poem reminds us that even what seems lost becomes part of what grows next. As you return to your day, you might ask yourself, what in me is ready to rest, and what might be quietly beginning to grow? Thank you for listening and for breathing and being with me today. Until next time, may you breathe gently and be at peace.