RETURNING WITH FALL

The sun raises a maned head over the horizon and stains the land ochre with but a look. The great star begins to drink the dew of autumn’s alchemy. Mist rises. The land is transformed by this celestial gaze. Come fall, the season asks for nothing less than this. 

Transformation. Has the summer sun ripened you ready enough for this turning? No matter; fall does not wait for readiness. At this threshold, it is all too common to drag your heels until every alder leaf has fallen and turned to dirt. It is too tempting to fix your stare south and to the highest of noons to forsake the night closing in around you. But may I ask, why fight the turning of the tide? And, what of surrender? They say to look to the trees,  for they may show us how to let go. In the fall, the bond between leaf and branch weakens, slowly, until it gives way entirely. I wonder if this decaying grip fears against the force of a building wind. And what a surprise it must be to free-fall, only to land atop the roots of who you thought you were. To transform into yourself again and again and again. In the fall, it seems all paths veer homeward.

And should a fear of summer’s parting or winter’s coming prevail, then may you harness this to pull the chariot of your gratitude. Will you let the blood of the very last long summer blackberry stain your fingers maroon? Will you welcome the first frost as it arrives to sweeten each and every rose hip ready? There is a certain faith asked of you; a trust for the great wheels beneath to turn as the seasons cycle onwards. I never dreamed possible as many transformations as this life has bestowed. Each season makes me new. 

What would it be like to put down all that which weary arms carry? Step through this portal willingly, friends. I implore you to surrender to the friction born of the shifting currents of fall as they slow your bow to a drift. Let the raven-black beacon of winter be your faithful guide inward. Allow yourself to be swallowed whole by the winged night’s embrace. Wade bravely into the depths of the inner seas that would steer your course. 

It is a time to lower your snout to the dirt, to be sure this path you trot down so fleetly is indeed the direction you mean to head. Slow, then, and take stock. Slow, then, and sip the golden sun from where it touches red barks and wet mosses that glisten every shade of green. Slow, then, and know the smell of cinnamon and apples on the stovetop. Marvel at fire’s warmth. Borrow time. Slow fate. 

And does anything astound you quite like the fruits of fall? Mycelium stoked by rain and sun to flourish in a brilliant rush of amber chanterelles upon the forest floor. It has taken me many seasons to rest in the wonder that none of this was ever mine to hold forever. Not their bodies nor mine. Not the pine martin nor the bear. Not my kin nor any one nor thing I would let define me. 

I suppose this is nothing more or less than an ode to the endless cycles of becoming and breaking down. Must grief be so consuming? Is there rest in the peace of knowing we are all returning home, in one way or another?  I do not have answers. Only questions through which I live these days, guided by the celestial beast now bowing low on the horizon. I meet this gaze in surrender.