Autumn

"I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again." - Georgia O'Keeffe

----- I know not everyone shares my practice of celebrating the arrival of Autumn at the beginning of August (and Winter at the first of November, Spring in February, and so on), but the transitions in this month are palpable. In Autumn, the crickets' crescendo laces with the decrescendo of the cicadas and katydids. It's liminal. Eilu v'eilu. Despite the climate change induced lingering of hot muggy days, nights are filled with the scent of trees finally exhaling, slowly submitting to rest. To say obsessed would be a bit dramatic, but I do love Autumn. Her comfort is an old friend. It is common to hear folks talk about "returning to self" this time of year. I don't recall turning away from myself; I am right here...but I have been distracted. I welcome the gentle & slow reset & refocusing.

----- August is a doorway, a border month, one foot in the clover, one in new-fallen leaves, a hand full of elderberries, a pocket full of wind. This is the odd, uneven time when hydrangeas suddenly bloom and sunflowers go to seed, and our lives are like this too some things lavish, some still in leaf, some withering, some tight-budded, and waiting to bloom. We may dream of great cauldrons of change in which to steep and dream, but have a mug of time instead, ten minutes, one page, a single rose, yet even this small space softens something inside us. So, we bless the first fruits, the half‑finished, falling things, and whisper our simplest spell: Breathing in, we arrive. Breathing out, we soften and make peace. “Hey ritual,” we say, “I’m returning.” - Molly Remer

----- A belated welcome, dear Autumn, my mistress.

MJP 2026-08-15