Fall is a meaningful time that merges abundance with endings: the growing season is complete, the leaves are dying off, hummingbirds are gone, and the cycle turns. Endings are a critical turn in a cycle, without it, the dream of the future cannot take hold.
The autumn die-off is linked to the west, the setting sun, marking the season of shorter days, crisp nights, and mushrooms.
They sprout like earthen fruits that branch out with mycelia, like synapses, connected in a subterranean web. They show how to merge with the medium of earth, weaving dead fibres into the soil, recycling into nourishment for future endeavours.
But the season’s growing darkness feels heartless, cruel, stripping the vitality of summer’s heat in blowing winds like scythes. Insect exoskeletons gather with dried leaves, dead branches, yesterday’s challenges and delights dispersed into the universe, food for thought, for the earth, and the spring’s new growth—to fill the heart with remorse if the spring is not reached, if numbing fingers don’t release. In the heart chakra, vitality and depletion are both embraced with equal affection, and autumn teaches that lesson with each turn of the cycle.
In its fading fire of colors is beauty; in the return of northern birds is continued music from the trees. The grief from loss feels the pinch of frost, reminding the heart to see thru the blur of tears. The salt on the tongue is earth’s call in the bones, risen on a breath of wind, with reach across time eternal, past and future all one in present—the gift that never ends.
Without the earth’s dark caverns to anchor in and shelter from dangers, we would not be. Our ancestors went inward and survived, knowing less than we do now—so we’re told. Without retreating inward to face the fears of the past, the fears continue into the future. If not exorcised in the dream realm, will they not haunt persistently thru day’s shadows and night’s darkest hours?
The seeds, carried on the wind, land in crevices, are covered over by leaves, and begin incubating, going inward. The deep freeze will pierce them with its shards, sparking the core with a mystical force. Upon the thaw, life blooms. The cycle renews; the shroud of leaves crystallizes in the dream in winter’s dream-to-come, but for the moment, autumn winds swirl like cornucopeia overflowing with skeletons, the stuff of yesterday, crystallizing into the plenty of tomorrow.
Love from Not Serendipity
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