Feel the passing of summer; as light lessens, we deepen the rhythms of rebirth. The is the first harvest—a time of abundance, our opportunity to assume conscious collective responsibility for creating the future. In this time of grains ripening, as we can also feel the Great Loneliness that wraps our human world, keep asking: What is it we value? How can we align our lives with that vision?
How can we control our population, transition from fossil fuels, eliminate toxic waste, practice wisdom without the sacrifices of technology? How can we stop feeding the world to our machines?
As I celebrate the Wheel of the Year, the midpoint between the summer solstice (Midsummer) and the autumnal equinox (Harvest) is Summer’s End. I call it that because this is the moment when Autumn first becomes detectable in my region: in the angle of the light, in the hard blue of the sky, in the sputtering of the fog cycle to bring searing hot days, and in the first turning of early leaves.
Summer’s End’s metaphorical meanings relate to work and craft, to technology and toolmaking and effort. It is the time when the harvests of hay and blackberries and early summer vegetables are at their height, so there is a lot of work to be done. Gardens are producing and gophers are marauding and the relaxed waiting of Midsummer is gone as the fruits of labor begin to come to ripeness. It is the beginning of Autumn: the time the labor of early harvesting begins in earnest.
It's the end of Summer and there are few things on my mind. Yes the rush of back to school preparations usually takes my family by storm, but I am pretty dull lately due to my unwavering focus and inability to talk about anything else. I am obsessed with harvest season.
Ask how I'm doing, I'll tell you my zucchini is doing great, but my pumpkins are coming in very slow and I'm afraid they won't beat the frost.
Beneath a sky grown newly vast, where geese call, winged witches, the trees are stripped and naked; their squirrels wear blue vair.
Branches above, branches below. The Antlered also wears his winter blue now, his bull-neck engorged with pounding maleness. He quivers, eager to rut his does and witches.
A golden carpet is laid for us, flecked with browns and russets. The cider is poured, the table spread with all the wealth of Summer. The fire is laid and ready to light; the skeleton band tunes up.
Anthony Gresham
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