Autumn Shivering In On The Wings of Canadian Geese

The Canadian geese arrived today on their annual trek south, and autumn came shivering in on their black-tipped wings. Technically, autumn has been here for weeks, but the summer sun has been reluctant to release her grip on Central Texas, which is fine by me.

Though I am a child of October, autumn, for me, is a yawning, cavernous time of subterranean sighs, the small creakings and dyings of summer, the lingering shadows of old sorrows burrowing in for a long winter.

Watching the geese skim across the darkening water, I work at finding the beauty of the season, the dusty golds and burnt oranges, but in my heart I know that winter lurks beyond the leaves and will be here soon, pressing its low, gray sky into the earth.

Over the past few years, I have learned to come to terms with autumn, but I am not sure winter will ever be welcome to me. And so I will pull blankets from storage and stockpile hot chocolate and settle in, knowing that spring will come.

Autumn Equinox, Celtic Style . . .

The sun is waning signaling the start of shorter days, winter winds and Autumn Equinox. Today, the sun and moon share the sky equally, and Celts celebrate the harvest . . .

The Wicker man There was a Celtic ritual of dressing the last sheaf of corn to be harvested in fine clothes, or weaving it into a wicker-like man or woman. It was believed the sun or the corn spirit was trapped in the corn and needed to be set free. This effigy was usually burned in celebration of the harvest and the ashes would be spread on the fields. This annual sacrifice of a large wicker man (representing the corn spirit) is thought by many to have been the origin of the misconception that Druids made human sacrifices.

'The reaping is over and the harvest is in,
Summer is finished, another cycle begins'

In some areas of the country the last sheaf was kept inside until the following spring, when it would be ploughed back into the land. In Scotland, the last sheaf of harvest is called 'the Maiden', and must be cut by the youngest female in attendance.

December Moon

It's been an odd year, ending with an odd month, when the 81-degree afternoon melted into a bitter cold evening, granting us a rare December snowfall. The moon rise this evening was breathtaking, large and full and swollen with the end of the year, the largest moon we will see for at least another year as it draws near the earth in its orbit.

My grandfather called this the Twelfth Moon, his name for the moon at the turn of the year, but other people, other tribes know it as the Cold Moon, the Bitter Moon--the Snow Moon. It is not often we see the Snow Moon here in the south, so I will snuggle beneath a blanket with the cat, basking in the golden glow of this Snow Moon, and know that other people, other tribes, will do the same.

Winter shivering in and sadly loving Mary Oliver

There are Canadian geese in my yard. They've stopped off, I think, on their way south, or this is south for them, and I'm glad to have them. They honk and flap, and attacked the cat, who, in fairness, attacked them first.

I love it that they're here, but sad, too. Soon, the monarchs will come, a stop over for their winter nest in Mexico. I've planted butterfly bushes for them. They will come and the hummingbirds will leave, and winter will shiver down from the north and will settle over the lake in a cold, gray fog, and I will be another year older . . .

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver
published by Atlantic Monthly Press
© Mary Oliver