Turning and turning in the widening gyreThe falcon cannot hear the falconer;Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhereThe ceremony of innocence is drowned;The best lack all conviction, while the worstAre full of passionate intensity.–W.B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”
Autumn came creeping quietly this year. Her scent wafted in on the Westerlies in late August, now her colors begin to show in the sumacs and maples. She spreads her fruit-laden mantle across the land. The oaks and white pines breath sighs of relief at a chance to rest and recover from the relentless onslaught of gypsy moth caterpillars. The mugwort, high as an elephant’s eye, bows low, her crown heavy with seeds. Tomatoes droop heavily on their withering vines, and valerian and horseradish draw their strong medicines down into their roots. Soon the time of the ancestors will be upon us, the first frosts already heralding the ride of the Wild Hunt.
Summer was a time of voyages, extended trips to visit far-flung tribes. It was the heat of growth and expansion, the fires of the sun coaxing abundance from the damp earth. If winter personifies the height of stability in its frozen state, summer is where things fly apart, swirling outwards into new connections and experiences. Indeed, the falcon cannot hear the falconer. The man fears the loss of his bird; does the bird fear the loss of her captivity?
Autumn begins to return us to center. This is the time for the gathering-in, for the harvest. It is the time of the deep and abundant earth. Before the Golden Dawn, the elemental correspondence for the West and Autumn was Earth, and that is the association I still prefer (for many reasons). The ancestors dwell within mounds of earth. Where I live, the largest landmass is to the West. The time of harvest is the time to tend to the body, to feed it well, to experience the sensuality of good food and whole-ing, healing medicine. Celebrations move closer to home as chill breezes curl around the bases of apple and squash.
There is a touch of melancholy to be sure (quite literally if one applies humoral doctrine). Returning to center means leaving behind the frivolity of summer. The opportunity for travel has not ended, but tending to home and hearth takes precedence. Autumn is the responsibility of butchering meat, of reaping grain, of canning and pickling and salting. It is settling into the yoke of winter, and some chafe under that burden.
Fall into finding your center, wherever that may be. Begin courting stillness. Know that your spirit is invincible, suspended in perfect harmony between earth and stars. You are the center of the circle that is everywhere. Connect with community, help each other where help can be given and allow space where it can’t. Celebrate firm foundations and sink into silence and appreciation.
The harvest has begun.
Amongst some circles of polytheists, the term UPG (Unsubstantiated Personal Gnosis, for those just joining the party) has long been a dirty word, particularly for those with a more reconstructionist bent. UPG is “fluffy bunny” or “just so Wiccan” or “unscientific”. (Yup. That’s because we’re practicing a spirituality, not conducting an empirical experiment.)
People who do magic, who really roll up their sleeves and have altar dust under their nails, know that is not a certain thing. I’ve been searching for a holey stone since I first heard of them over seven years ago. The are primal talismans, formed by wind and water cutting a perfect window into living stone. Lucky is the Druid who can find one. Like any magical geegaw, they can be bought online, but that seemed like cheating. Power comes from rarity and from the effort in acquiring an object.
I headed for the Friendship of Salem, a replica ship that docks in the old harbor, but it sadly was out of its harbor for repairs. The New England sun cast four o’clock shadows though it was only 1 PM. I began making my way to the gravel and storm debris that lined the sides of the quay. I began on the eastern side, chanting “holey stone, holey stone, holey stone” in my head as my eyes scanned the deposits of rocks from the last summer storm. I had the image in my head of a thumb-sized rock, the hole perfectly centered, just laying there in the afternoon sun, begging for me to snatch it up. The angle of the light made it easy to see possible candidates, as any divots cast shadows across the surface of the pebbles.
