Next week we will cross from autumn into earliest winter. The darkening nights enfold me and I am grateful for the cool kiss of air that greets me when I wake. The call to deeper rest is not only during the earlier arrival of evenings, but in the low hanging sun in day-sky.
Autumn Newsletter: Harvesting Rest
In recent years, my local climate has not followed the usual patterns of weaving cool weather into night, to leaves surrendering their green into startling reds and yellows, and flowers dropping to mulch into soil as autumn approaches. Oh, it arrives in some form, but a bit chagrined and with a folder full of explanations. So I was happy, yes happy, to don my rain gear as the calendar officially announced the equinox in my beloved Pacific NW and the Nature that surrounds me magically turned on cue. As one who has lived all but the first four years of her life in this region of the world, the shift in seasons is one way I navigate the spiral of my being. The harvest of rest this season offers, with its lengthening nights and bundling of my body for warmth, reminds me of all the moments I’ve forgotten in the chaos of summer about SLOW TIME. Slow time, something I lean into with more grace as I age. Stepping away from the demands of external clocks (though they still seems to dictate more of my life than I desire.)
Singing Grief & Loss Into Our Voices
As summer wanes the songs of birds have also waned. I am no longer roused from sleep by the Dark-eyed Juncos’ romancing lilt an hour before the sun rises. Spring desire stirred their songs to life, along with Robins, Chickadees, Nuthatches, and so many more back when Rain still canvased Pacific Northwest landscape. Now the Junco’s nesting season is over, other wee birds stop by for sips from the birdbaths (Juncos understandably did not want to share space while they were parenting and kept other birds at bay.) I welcome the return of the full calliope.
Early Summer Newsletter: In Community With Birds
I guess this ”Early Summer” newsletter is substituting for the never-written-but often-contemplated “Spring” newsletter. It was an odd spring, what with a very wet start, a mid-season hot spell that dissipated into an almost autumnal feel. Oh, we had the occasional mid-80’s day and the tulips, lilacs, irises, peonies, dogwoods, and other seasonal regulars bloomed in color-wheel splendor to remind us Pacific Northwesterners that, yes, the calendar was correct. It was April. May. June. Somehow the writing of the Spring newsletter was waylaid by the enchantment of greening landscapes, creating and fine tuning my recent presentation, and pondering (okay obsessing about) my future “home” options…an ongoing journey I will not delve into right now.
Lessons from the Pandemic: Invitations of Winter & Grief
Winter Solstice is near. Solstice, when Ancients believed Sun stood still. Night pausing before passing into Winter. This turning point from Autumn to Winter is full of silent invitations waiting for my noticing. I walk in the pre-dawn enveloped in Night. When Rain saturates Air, slow rising Sun scarcely brightens Sky. On Star-speckled walks the beam of my flashlight fades to nothing as Sky turns lavender to periwinkle to jaybird-blue well before the appointed “sunrise” time. I wonder at it all. That I should be so blessed to witness this offering.
