For someone who is never at home, lacing her life between jobs, commutes and contacts, today was a gift. A nothing day, and an everything day. A day, now darkening beneath the first of the true grey days, that I have not spoken a word to anyone.
The beginning of Autumn. Light hides now, the sun weak and rain draws patterns on glass. On waking, with a day to myself, the urge to turn into the duvet was tempting, but for me, the first, true Autumn day, is the soul day. For cleaning of life, of space and spirit. Inward time.
Preparing for the winter, and myself to get through it. Most know I take little responsibility for my misery dans the London Winter, Lord knows that I struggle with it still – but for the first time, I choose to stay this year. Much has happened with little choice of my own, so I am sort of surprising myself on this one, and may I take the opportunity now, to yet be held unaccountable when the grey monotone smallness of post Christmas slithers beneath my heart.
I do love Autumn though. Always have, its my birthday season, as nature sheds her clothes and stands naked, without fear, as one does when the lover loves regardless and still finds the beauty. Land becomes carpets of jewels, the fox blends and rosé turns to red. To bed and fire and books and stories of closeness – and family. Of memories and the world can wait a little – the pace can slow a little – the questions are left unanswered and the messiness of life matters not – for in Autumn I refrain from questions and trying to prove. Resolve to linger a little longer, love a little deeper and bring the threads home.
In Autumn I still have the faith that though things have changed, beauty remains. In Winter I grieve for the things that have changed. Autumn is soft, voluptuous, rounded with berries, scented with earth and passion. Winter is a grave yard of buried hope. Unless it snows, unless it’s Christmas, unless love still lives there. Autumn is falling, yet landing softly.
The Autumn soul is a kind one. And I hope above all, I can still be that. So, in this quiet day of preparing for Autumn, the things of others are packed to take out another day, to reminisce about with care and affection. The candles are lit, the wine is poured, the lack of hearth is not yet lamented but the soul is calm.
‘Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness …’ Keats
Mellow we shall be. Mellow and still moved by the magic that lingers.
Autumn brings the heart to a quiet mindfulness. And it remains the same.
Painting by Madison de Villiers