Tag Archives: autumn

Tend to the Task at Hand

When the barley ripens, or the wheat — reap it.

When the zucchini hangs heavy on the vine, pick it and process it. It will generously lend itself to a multitude of preparations – soups, sweets, and simpler dishes too. But eat it. As much as you can while it lasts.

When the clothes closet demands a clearing out of unnecessary articles, answer the call. Sort this from that and give away what is no longer needed – not necessarily to those “less fortunate” whateverthatmeans, but to those who will use it, who might want it. The unwearable may be turned into a shop rag. An old, holey sock may still serve a purpose in soaking up leaked oil at the combine.

When the larder grows lean, provision it. First from your own solar stores, that being the garden and the field. Then, from what you can find near, that produce grown by friends and neighbours to be found at the farmers market. Finally, and when all other avenues are exhausted, the grocery store.

When the body feels out of sorts and full of malaise, work it. Stretch its limbs and strengthen its muscles. Stoop and bend in the garden, walk miles on dirt roads, even run them if you can. Contort yourself on a yoga mat, or better, on grass.

When the body is sore from exertion, soak it in hot butnottoohot water, and salts if they are near to hand. While in the bath, tend to your mind’s worries and your heart’s sorrows. Invite the soul’s help in this, for it will know what is needful if you can listen.

When words rattle around in your head all day, asking to be written down, do so. Write them down. Let them come out and place themselves upon a page, whether by pen or otherwise. Editing and revisions can come later, if they are needed. They may not be needed. Sometimes it comes out just right the first time.

When the new moon rises in Virgo, invisible to the eye, make a list of the tasks at hand. And tend to them

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Time Passes

Time passes, slips away, recedes right before my very eyes. It’s that time of year again, the time for shoring up, buckling down, tightening up. Winter is on its way, no matter how many warm and sunny days we’ve been having and may yet have. And true to form, to my own internal clock, something in me, the restless, creative drive has begun to curl up, to burrow in, to get all warm and comfy and sleepy. My ideas don’t have the sizzle and spark that they did in spring and summer. My overwhelming zest for life, so powerful that it’s almost frantic at times, has dwindled down. Not because the love has gone, but it has deepened into a solid appreciation, a constant gratitude for what has come about and what may yet be. I can rest on all that I’ve done the past several months, let myself sink into it until the restlessness returns, probably with the first stirrings of spring.

Barren Trees

Shadows Lengthen

As the season changes, so too does the light. Shadows lengthen. It’s hard to know if the autumn foliage of the prairies is really THAT brilliant, or if it just seems that way because of how the sun sits in the sky, slanting at just the right angle to pick out every hue. But of course, the light and the leaves must conspire. Nature is full of such beautiful conspiracies.

This is what a perfect autumn day looks like in the Deep South. It just so happened to be the day of a total lunar eclipse, when the entire moon is obscured by the shadow of the earth. Shadows and more shadows. But there can only be shadows when there’s light. And we have the best light anywhere.

Change of Season

– George Santayana

I used to try to hold desperately on to summer. I hated winter with such a vengeance that every sign of autumn was unwelcome, no matter how beautiful. I dreaded the first honks of migrating geese while simultaneously feeling moved by their sheer numbers, their incredible journey. I resented their Vs flying south because it meant winter was coming. I’ve learned to appreciate autumn more, and even winter. I’ve learned to love each season for what it is.

This year, I feel ready for winter to come. I’m not exactly looking forward to it, but I can accept it. This change in mindset has been slowly changing for years, but it solidified last year when I was working on Master’s thesis. I spent nearly every day of September, October and November outside. I had never been so intimately acquainted with Nature on a daily basis before. The autumn unfolded slowly in front of my eyes. When winter did come, it was not an unwelcome shock as it had always been when I lived in the city away from Nature or when I was younger and blinder. It was simply the natural unfolding of events. It was time.

Because I spent so much time outdoors, I also noticed things I had never paid attention to before. I’ve always considered myself a Nature lover, someone who goes gamboling about just because I enjoy fresh air and the beauty of the natural world. But I had never had the opportunity to just be in it for such a stretch of uninterrupted time before. I had never had the chance to let it seep into me. It changed my life. This blog exists because of it. And so here are some of the harbingers of the coming winter.

Leaves and lack thereof All trees have their own schedules and agendas. Here in Saskatchewan we don’t have the brilliant foliage displays like they have back East; the trees go about their business more quietly. Some begin to change in early September, some trees have shed their summer adornment completely by the first of October. Others take their time about it, like the stately poplar in my yard that just changed colour last week and is still clinging onto the last of its leaves. It has also shared some of them via a west wind with the evergreens across the lawn.

Bearing of fruit My garden (my first) came into its full fruition. The spuds were the last to go, and what a harvest it was. Wild plants have also borne fruit, like the wild roses along the ditch who are proudly displaying their hips.

Birds There is nothing as awe-inspiring as the great autumn migrations, nothing. The sandhill cranes have been and gone, uttering their strange guttural cries. The geese are just coming now in their giant flocks – tens of thousands in one field, sometimes. I can hear them at night as they rest on Stink Lake a few miles to the northeast. The blackbirds left earlier. Some of the smaller birds leave so quietly that I don’t notice until they return with their happy songs in the spring. Right now I am obsessed with the Tundra swans that have taken up temporary residence on the wetland north of home and the slough south of home, hence the excessive amount of swan photos. I’ve never seen so many in one year before. I hope they like the looks of the Gap and decide to come back next year, too.

Digging in Burrowing mammals are digging in and getting settled for the cold to come. The most obvious form of this is the muskrat house. Muskrats live in sloughs and other bodies of water. Around this time of year, their houses start popping up, built of mud and grass and other local materials. Truly vernacular architecture. Folklore says that the size of muskrat houses determines the severity of the coming winter. Judging by what I’ve seen so far, we might be in for a cold one.

Light and shadow It wasn’t until last year that I truly understood theĀ  movement of the sun and how it determines the seasons. As I photographed barns every day, I had to keep changing the settings on my camera as the days progressed. I finally realised the obvious: the sun was changing position in the sky, slowly but surely. It sits lower in the sky. Shadows lengthen – even in the fullness of the afternoon, they are longer than in the summer. The angle of the sunlight casts a golden hue on everything. To each season, its own light. And me, chasing it.