Autumn Equinox 25: The Cutting Away and the Gathering In by Sara Wright

There is something very special about ‘the cutting away and  gathering in’ … my very wild gardens are flattened, my wildflower field has just been mowed,  trees are turning, and I am possessed by joy.

 It’s at this time of year that the sky opens into a field of dreams. I walk down through the pines to watch the stars appear at dusk – the open field widens my vision. The Great Bear circumnavigates the sky and as other constellations crystalize, I can imagine that it’s possible to re- imagine, to re- weave the threads around the cross-cultural web that is broken. Ordinary perception fails.

I am also reminded that everything changes, and that the seasonal round is the foundation of life.

  In this same field during daylight hours birds feast on thousands of scattered seeds that have been baked in summer heat.

I’m amazed by an illumination.

 At both equinoxes near and far meet.

September dawned cool and stayed that way. The hummingbirds knew – almost all migrated southward the night of September 1^st.  Within a week the swamp maples were tipped in crimson, bright green ferns paled yellow to ochre, salmon, pink. Orange tipped sugar maples followed suit as carotenoid pigments emerged. As more chlorophyll recedes anthocyanin turns some leaves plum purple, others bright red – a few are still tipped in lime. Others catch fire.  

Every morning, I stand at my windows peering into a background of green as the colors deepen and the Light of Fall Splendor becomes All There Is.

I sneak out the door for a brief meander while Coalie sleeps. One morning, I discovered a bumblebee hiding under a wild aster leaf. Some blossoms were not yet open. Was she sleeping or just waiting patiently for a nectar filled blossom to open? The sight of a single bumblebee our most important pollinator brought tears to my eyes. I admired her tenacity, humbled by all I did not know.

 Of course, this leaf turning is a process,  and precisely why I make a point of paying such close attention. I am determined not to miss a moment knowing that these days will culminate all too soon in an impossible tangle of mostly bare deciduous trees and tired evergreens accompanied by winter’s chill. Aside from joy, a deep poignancy marks these fleeting days.

For two years I have mourned the loss of what I call ‘fire on the mountain’– inside and outside – the joy and brilliance that accompanies autumn changes seems to affect me internally. The first year it rained all summer, the next unseasonable heat blew in noxious air throughout September. Without cool night temperatures, insect ridden maple leaves rattled like bones before sinking onto moss covered floors.

 This year a reprieve.  Not even severe drought is  diminishing the wonder I am experiencing each dawning. If the season is short, so be it. I peer into still mirrors instead of flowing waters, walk through papery leaves, revel in the joy that Coalie experiences as she snuffles under detritus seeking scents beyond my imagining.

When outdoors my chihuahua lies down and stretches out, belly to ground. Her whole body seems to be communing with Earth. Does she feel Natures’ heartbeat, and the gurgling sound of tree sap that is gradually descending to commune with tree roots?

 I remember the dream I had about Coalie the night before she arrived. She was a bright green earth star – two stars inscribed -one on the outside, the other within.

Last night in a dream Coalie was almost hidden by tall grasses, sniffing/ snuffling away in a field. I can feel her pleasure, her childlike wonder. I also experience relief because I know that she is old enough to be protected from tick borne diseases…At the same time I listen to a dream voice that cautions me to keep her out of places like this one. The Mother Field. Any ‘field’ of influence carries both a positive and negative charge so I  heed the warning – literal or not.

 Coalie lives so close to the ground that I suspect she knows where the Old Grandmothers are hiding.

 Last week in the woods she unearthed a missing wild orchid just after I verbalized my disappointment to the trees.

‘Nodding Lady’s Tresses’ I quiped.

 Fragrant Daughters of the Earth – Yes!

This ‘field of abundance’ endures even though light frost has tipped the ferns. The air carries the sweetest scent of newly cut hay. I’ve been collecting seed pods that are  drying around Changing Woman’s Mountain (whose address changed last spring at the spring equinox) and yesterday Coalie grabbed a milkweed pod. Oh, what an impossible mess – Airborne feathery seeds literally flew around the house!

The cheerful faces of flaming orange nasturtiums are oblivious to all but a killing frost. I stripped the bean tree and brought in the scarlet runner bean pods to finish ripening indoors. Nasturtium seeds too. Picked up fat acorns and  buried one near Lucy’s grave, was given some ‘painted ladies’ that shine like pearls swimming in polished leather.*

 Once the bee tree is under a warming sun, honey bees seek the sweet nectar as do a multitude of tiny wild bees.   Honey bees visit here only twice a year, once during the spring cherry, apple pear/crabapple bloom and now for the bee tree finale (old fashioned hydrangea).

Asters continue to draw in a few two spotted bumblebees like the one I saw this morning, but this is the only bee species that has been with me this whole season. Butterflies are totally absent. Some changes are more than unwelcome – frightening by implication, but I will not dwell on them here.

The Autumn Equinox Turning comes only once a year when a sleepy sun star turns green leaves gold, forest shadows deepen, and the curtain parts…

 I walked to the bridge and crossed it on a whim, listening to water slipping over moss covered stone. I stopped at my brother’s burial stone to glimpse starry witch hazel flowers and beaded fruits hidden under veiny almond leaves. Dipping my cup into still water I acknowledged my dead including both  my girls as I returned to the house offering each a few drops of this precious elixir before doing the same for us. Blessings for All.

Awareness dawns. I am LIVING this autumn equinox every day; no wonder words don’t come.

Last week I harvested purple basil, froze other fresh herbs, peeled fresh garlic, and simmered some of each in the sweetest tomatoes creating a base for winter soups. There is something about processing fresh foods that attaches me to Nature in the most intimate of ways. I feel profoundly grateful. I wish I felt that way when grocery shopping, but I don’t. Plastic reigns and I feel no connection to the foods I buy.

A dear friend emails me from Canada and I discover that we are both celebrating this equinox turning together, each in her own way. I love having a female companion! We are both complaining that neither of us can finish anything we write! She might as  well be in the room with me. This kind of love connection is not distant dependent.

I decorated my homemade grape wreath covering the circle of vines with deep pink and coral flowers. When I hung this glorious round on the North wall  recalling the deadly spring equinox that ushered in betrayal even while I was naively cutting willows for rooting.

 One week later I returned to those lowlands this time to cut tender willow shoots for weaving. I slogged up the hill in fog and rain following my dying dog’s behavioral instructions. Driven, I wove each sinewy green willow strand into a circle of life.*

 At the time I had no idea that as I bent each slender wand to form the wreath that I was in the process of re- weaving myself (A barred owl hoots as I write these words – owls are one of my familiars). Six months later after re -weaving me at one equinox I re-weave the world at the other even if it’s only through intent and imagination.

Twice is the magic number for manifestation.

This is when I can glimpse a sliver of truth – that actions do matter regardless of outcome. Perhaps they help us enter a field where change becomes possible? All I know is that this year I have twice committed to be a weaver of relationships and not a destroyer.

If only many others would join me.

When I write the above words Coalie suddenly wakes up from a deep sleep, sits up straight, stares out into a dark night rotating her ears…. then I hear one deafening hoot from a g/h Owl just perched somewhere outside my window. The owls have been present twice, one around each equinox.

I also note that I have just finished responding to my friend’s new poem. She’s stuck where I am:  How can we re -imagine a way of being with Earth without harm ing living beings? She’s writing about anti -fascism.

Owls and Women share a mysterious connection. It’s not just me. Prophecy.

I need to cross over that bridge again reminding myself of these words.

At the equinoxes near and far meet.

*(1)  South American runner bean a relative of ‘scarlet runners’. Both have been grown by Indigenous peoples in South America for millennia ‘Scarlet runners and Painted ladies’ – hmmm.

* (2) Willows photosynthesize early and in mild winters keep on eating  light all winter long).