What will sustain

The wheel turns.

September. Already nearly done. As I sat down, at last, to write here again, I was inspired by Maia Toll’s lovely seasonal reflection for this month.

This summer-autumn transition is rarely an easy one for me. It can seem that, in this part of the world (England’s West Country), the move from one season to the next is often sudden. One day it’s balmy and drowsy, the next the wind has picked up to toss the falling leaves and carry in the rain clouds. This year, early September was a haze of sunny heatwave, then we passed the equinox, the wheel turned, and just like that the days were shorter than the nights again. I’ll admit to a quiet dread. 

I’m a solar being - we all are. We carry light in our bodies. Through summer’s better days, I’m pretty much high as a red-tailed kite, either hyperactive or in a semi-coma of thermal delight. I’m photosynthesizing that sunshine into zesty neurotransmitters. Sadly, I’m not overly productive, but I get shit done (as long as it’s outdoors) and am happy while I go about it. As the sun goes, so does my buzz.

Last year I decided to “what if” my way into A/W 22. What if I loved it? I gave our living room a mini-makeover with autumnal colours, candles, blankets, and cushions. It worked well enough that I just gave it a refresh. Greens, terracotta, orange. Soft textures and comfort. Drawing the curtains once the jackdaws have roosted - we get our very own flyover every dusk - brings a sense of coziness that’s a sweet consolation prize for the loss of light.

But here’s the truth. The bit I nearly didn’t write about. I didn’t soft furnish my way into an easy seasonal change. Through the summer I stayed afloat amid waves of grief, anxiety and lost direction. My beloved sun kept me going when it was around but I barely hung on and then, as equinox came and went, I started to fall apart.

The same thing happened last year. My father had gone into hospital with pneumonia (again) and had just been sent home with instructions to “Just look after him… he has maybe two weeks, maybe two days. We won’t admit him again; there’s nothing we can do.” He made nine days. During that time the two years of worry and stress that came with being responsible for his entire and literal life caught up with me and I ended up in a heap in a supermarket car park. Then he died.

This last year went on to be a list of illness, tests and scans for me and my family. I’ve had many hospital visits; my partner had his. My elderly dog had multiple surgeries and then made it clear he was ready to leave us, so I let him. My heart broke. My sadness refused to heal, as did bits of my body.

By mid-September I was having anxiety attacks. Enough to get me to the point where I was having anxiety attacks about the possibility that I was going to have an anxiety attack. 

Enough.

I booked online counselling. I rang my GP. I accepted the offer of short term medication. I accept the possibility it may end up being long term. It’s helping and I’m not spinning out anymore. I can see good things coming. We are okay.

This time of the year - in the northern hemisphere - is often when we turn to organising life. Making plans for the season as we move back indoors. Getting our homes sorted out; new habits in place; goals set, and I’m doing the same.

I’m learning to live with uncertainty and with accepting - really accepting - that life as a human animal is a miraculous gift that doesn’t last forever, and often the end is difficult. The journey to whatever comes next can be turbulent and frightening. I asked myself, do I want to arrive at that part already tired, rundown, regretful, unfulfilled, or do I want to get there as well-resourced as I can manage? In body, mind, heart, spirit. 

As I gently lead my poor brain out of catastrophe and back into possibility, I acknowledge this:

I am a human animal in the autumn of my life and actually, it suits my soul. It’s my vibe. Autumn is older and wiser. She looks at summer’s daydreams and expansive visions, measuring up what she can make with them. What will keep. What will sustain.

For me, a year on from my father’s passing and three months from Digby’s goodbye, I am - as I heal - ready to rebuild on foundations I set more than a decade ago. I’ve done the homeschooling mama; I’ve done the dutiful daughter, and now I’d like to be me. Because I think she may be about to hit her best years.

I’m remembering the barefoot woman, the hedgewild edgewitch, the shapeshifter (old friends will remember these incarnations). I’m back at my wild edges and Deerwalker is me now. Ready for the magic, the medicine and the soul work.

I’m ready to go back to my roots.

How very autumnal.