We’re halfway through October and the trees haven’t decided yet—leaves still mostly green, some turning straight to brown—very little of the expected color extravaganza. Will there be color this year, or will this fall pass in muted tones? We don’t know yet. We’re standing in the shimmer, that threshold where there are intimations of a shape behind the veil, but the details of the story are still shrouded in mystery. Replace the leaves of autumn with anything else unfolding—climate, politics, our very life. What if, instead of demanding answers for questions that must first fully ripen, we practice Rilke’s invitation, and live the question, with steady, unflinching eyes on the veil?
