A Season of Contrasts
As the nights get longer and the air gets crisper, I can’t help but reflect on the little shifts and changes I notice in Autumn. They start externally, with the blazing colours of our October sunrises, or the first skiff of snow on the mountain tops, but they sneak inside when I’m not looking. Maybe you notice them too?
The urges to hibernate. Eat soup. Light candles. Linger in bed. Sometimes this also includes a diffuse sense of melancholy. Listless thoughts. Lower energy. Grieving for the warmth of sunlight on your skin. Depending on where you are, this can be quite pronounced. You are not alone.
If I’m forgetful or distracted I can get caught up in the spiral of “Why do I feel this way?” Or, “Something must be wrong with me.” Or, “Maybe I just need to try harder.” I forget that I’m a mammal and that I too am intricately connected to the changes in light and temperature, shaped by my environment. I may not fly south for winter, nor grow an extra thick coat of fur (though this is debatable when you peek under my long johns), but that doesn’t mean that I can or should function unchanged, like a robot or a machine. We are all part of something bigger, doesn’t it make sense that we would feel these seasonal shifts deep in our bones? That the needs of our nervous system change with the season too? If you’re in doubt, just ask your circadian rhythm.
I find it helps to remind myself that we are approaching the darkest third of the year, and that the light will return. Sometimes it’s also helpful to turn to archetypes or metaphors for a sense of purpose. This is the part in the Heroine’s Journey where we get to explore the wild depths of our spirit. What treasures may be found there? Shadowy territories can provide a space for incubation, for fermentation, for initiation. What new beginnings may be planted here?
This season is also an invitation to practice being gentle with ourselves, learning to nurture the parts of us that are still afraid of the dark. By noticing that our internal rhythms are slowing down, we can give ourselves permission to just be, more often. I nourish myself with naps and poetry, finding solace in words and solitude. We can also turn to creativity for comfort. The cold earthy smell of clay reminds me that I am here, now, that this body is mine, of something larger, and here to hold me through it all.
So rather than decide that something is wrong with you, let’s breathe deeply together, notice the changing season, and soak in the gifts of the darkness together.
