Autumn Lessons, by Molly M. Remer

Keep it simple and sacred
whisper the trees,
let go with grace
and trust the turning,
watch how the leaf
rides the air
all the way to the ground.
Let life astonish you,
mess and magic all entwined.
Be patient with yourself.
Feel the mask slip away
as the mist rises
and mystery
invites you
in. 

I have now been writing for Feminism and Religion for 14 years. Last summer, I compiled a post with 13 summer lessons from 13 years of posts here at FAR. I bookended that post with a Winter Lessons post as well. And, then a Spring Lessons post. Now, finally, I am rounding out the series with thirteen lessons from Autumn:

Lesson One: Spin a web of ceremony and song that crosses generations.

“We created a circle from across the miles, woven by the words of our life songs, birth songs, death songs…”

Lesson Two: Bless one another

“We might each personally add something more to that calling down, but at the root, to me, it is an affirmation of connection to the rhythms and cycles of relationship, time, and place. Blessings come from within and around us all the time, nothing supernatural required.”

Lesson Three: Tell your stories

“What I wanted to communicate with her was the idea that in sharing our stories, including the painful pieces, we free other women to do the same. Our courage to be vulnerable, to be naked, to be flawed, to experiment with ideas, concepts, or ways of being gives permission for other people to do the same.”

Lesson Four: Celebrate every life stage you can

“Where are their ceremonies and welcomes into manhood? Where are their stories in the desert? Is it a mother’s job to provide the container for those stories? Can I call the circle for my son and then step back? I know what it means to be a girl reaching into womanhood. I know what it means to circle with other women. Does it have to be different for boys and men?”

Lesson Five: Honor endings

“I cup my hand on the back of his head, the way I’ve done with each of my kids when they were newborns, feeling the curve of their skull under my palm and marveling how that head rested so easily in the cradle of my pelvis. My cells, my blood, my milk, made flesh. And, I cry.”

Lesson Six: Honor the ancestors

“If you have the opportunity to create ceremonies and rituals of personal meaning for your own family, please do it. It holds so much value, such life and power and love, in a way that is difficult to create by someone outside of the family. A small group of people who really care and who are willing to connect with each other in a meaningful, connected, vulnerable way, births so much real magic together. This container can be created by you, for you, and for the ones you love the most.”

Lesson Seven: Find joy in simple ritual

“As the sun was setting and the full moon was rising, my family stood together in the dim light on our back deck, lit a fire in a hollowed out pumpkin and offered handfuls of herbs into the flames as we celebrated our blessings, our harvests, and our bounty, as a family and as individuals.”

Lesson Eight: Find magic in the land you live on

“Being in the world, noticing what blooms and breathes and flows around us, is the fullest expression of my spirituality to me. Seeing what emerges, what fades, what rises and falls, this is a living magic. Honoring the passage of time, the turn of the wheel, the cycles of the land, the earth as an ensouled presence, and my own footsteps on her an act of devotion, these are the cornerstones of feminist spirituality for me. Look. Learn. Listen. Feel. Care. Act.”

Lesson Nine: Remember you are not alone

“I asked him if I could put my hand on the back of his head like I used to do when he was a baby. I reached my hands up to him, now six feet tall instead of 21 inches, and laid my hand on the back of his rough hair. And this time I cried because we are here and life holds so very much we can’t expect and it has been so good to be a part of his world. With my hand on his head, I told him how much we all love him, we’re here, you’re not alone.”

Lesson Ten: Start where you are and celebrate what you have

“These are our rites of fall, spontaneous and simple, heart-warming and reaffirming. This is a world-renewing magic, wrought of our own hands, joined together.”

Lesson Eleven: Return to awe when you can

“It is a trickling stream, but a stream nonetheless, of monarchs in motion, their migration in progress and me watching it, at just the right moment on just the right day. I have never seen so many at once and watch with joy, my heart beating faster, my eyes wild, calling for my family to join me in staring upward until my neck aches and my eyes water, the quick flutter of my own pulse a marker of an unexpected and enchanting return to awe.”

Lesson Twelve: Listen to the wise women

“As I stood in the circle of Crones and women in every phase of life, looking at each woman’s face, full of her own power, magic, and wisdom I knew: We are all the wise women. Listen.”

Lesson Thirteen: Pause at the threshold

“The mist that rises on autumn mornings becomes our teacher. Where chill meets warmth, the luminescence of mist is born. And, mist can be seen as a visible representation of the threshold itself, the guardian of the in-between where cloudy dreams take shape and beckon us in. In these liminal spaces, we stay with our questions, we listen to our longing, we lean forward, cautiously but persistently, allowing ourselves to transform.”

Happy Fall, everyone! May we continue to listen to our lives, to our landscapes, and to one another.

I wake thinking
of thresholds
and spider webs,
lessons from autumns gone by,
the sensation of standing
right at the edge
of something necessary,
something essential and profound,
and yet,
not quite being ready
to step across,
to step through,
to spread my wings and leap.
Maybe we are never
really ready for change,
and yet the wise rhythms
of our own lives
tip us over the edge anyway
and looking back,
we discover we have already leapt
again and again,
and now we are here,
because,
again,
and still.
An orb weaver spider
has once again
built her web across
our bedroom doorway,
and as I did last year,
I am careful to duck under it
as I step out into the cool morning,
leaving her curled
in the small square of space
between the two doors.
Now,
I sit in the quiet radiance
of the fall sunshine
listening to hawks,
inhabiting the between
where change cannot help
but continue to brew
as it waits for me to claim what I know,
to step through
and in,
leaving fear behind me,
as I have done so many other times before,
trusting life
to continue weaving
her many
delicate
threads.