Pregnant Light of Autumn
Fall has arrived. These are the pregnant light days—full and ripe, suspended between abundance and decline. The sunflowers tower above the garden, somehow defying the memory of snowdrifts, that a heartbeat ago, rose just as high. In this season, green becomes gold, gold becomes russet, russet becomes copper. Nature sings her full-throated Death Song, and in her dying, she gives all she has left. This is my prayer, my mantra. May I give all that I am with such beauty.
Asters bloom, hydrangea bend heavy, chrysanthemums glow in jewel tones—a crown upon the season. Squash swell, tomatoes gleam ruby red, the tables of the harvest groan with offerings. This is a threshold time, a season of harvest, of endings that are also beginnings.
And yet, the world outside feels restless. This week I am struck by the endless debates, the divisions that wound so deeply we cannot even agree on the meaning of words. We are at a collective turning point. Toward what will we turn? Echo chambers reverberate despair. Vigils promise hope.
But step outside, and watch how the sunflowers turn toward the light. Note how the pumpkins ripen quietly beneath the dying cornstalks. Watch the geese arc their signatures across the endless blue. Listen to how Nature whispers a deeper truth: turn toward what sustains, be grateful, and remember your place in the great mystery.
Mary Oliver once wrote of the “soft animal body” loving what it loves. In this season, I ask: what is it that you love? What calls you back to your own elemental gratitude?
This is what I love:
Russet maples, copper oaks, golden birches, crimson sumac.
Jewel-toned chrysanthemums and heavy-headed hydrangea.
Warm days, cool nights, and endless starshine.
Farmers markets and apple orchards.
The rhythm of stacking wood, finishing projects, and gathering with others—at retreats, at feasts, at sacred moments of remembrance.
I am blessed to live where the seasons speak so clearly of life’s turning. I love them all, but oh, Autumn, Mabon, I love you best. For you remind me of mortality. You remind me that in the final lap, we are called to give everything we have. To hold nothing back.
As you move through this season, may you also find what you love. May you taste the sweetness of harvest, hear the wild cries of migrating geese, and let gratitude own your heart. And may Autumn teach you, as she teaches me: in the dying, there is fullness; in the letting go, there is beauty; in the final offering, there is wholeness.