Something Dies, Something Is Born
Bending my ear towards the dark earth
It seems like everyone's so afraid of emotion
'Cause they can't bear the pain
But the deeper sorrow carves in the heart of your being
The more joy you can contain
— from Emerald River Dance by the prophetic Judee Sill. You can listen to this beautiful song here.
Autumn peels in slowly, heralded by the perfect balance of light and dark. It wants to show us that change is a doorway, and that death is a gift who comes in colours and carries blessings.
I bow my head and withdraw to the fireside, my pockets filled with seeds, and with the promises that I have made with myself and with the world. The summer wanes and rots but I am still alive—yes, yes!
The season shifts the landscape. Something within me dies, and something else is born. We are, all of us, changed. And so are the trees, and the morning light, and the robin’s song, and the smell of the air like a wave of happy death.
I close my eyes and let prayers spill from my lips like water leaving the mouth of the stream. I cut my flesh and bleed rosehip red. In the fields the dock rusts and darkens and goes to seed. Blood and iron and decay begin to course through the land, passing into my veins and filling my lungs. I draw the heavy breath that sustains, opening my arms and falling backwards into the final colours of the year, dreaming the sweetly-scented dream of summer passed. It is time to collect blackberries and acorns and lengths of golden grass. With my treasures I weave a harvest crown and ready myself for the great passage.
Into the waning light we proceed in ones and twos and threes. A song for every seed-head and every falling leaf springs forth from our mouths. Fungus scents the stillness of the air and September swallows spin through the clouds of an evening that swells like a lilac flame fed by death’s delighting.
My heart is on fire, and your eyes are the colour of cool rain. We bind our hands together and go out walking; out into the harvest, out into the funeral procession, singing to each other of how death is just another beginning, waiting to unfold.
autumn dispatch 01 | 22.09.2024 | The shorn meadow. The black horse. The quick hare. Silver birch and red-berried rowan. Yellow grasses and cool, clear light. The perfect arc of pink sky. The air is different now, and I am slowly calling old friends back into my orbit — favoured cardigans, trusty woollen socks, warm bowls of porridge; for to weather the seismic shifts in the landscape we will surely need our reinforcements. This spectral time of year is a process of adjustments, as the wing of the crow cuts a colder line in the sky and falls against fading fields, and I notice the yellowing and browning all around. The squash ripens on the vine, jewels spill from the hedgerows, and the nettles grow taller than I. Soon the winds will change and the leaves will turn before their great descent. I wrap up warm and await instruction, bending my ear towards the dark earth, and lifting my eyes to the sky.
For more Autumn Equinox reflections, you may wish to take a look at last year’s newsletter below.
