Mabon Approaches, 2012
© Dana D. Eilers, 2012
I live in New England where there are four distinct seasons to the year: fall, winter, spring, and summer. They come with all the iconic images which we traditionally associate with those seasons. Now, after one of the most sweltering summers of record during which record numbers of people flocked to the East Coast, I feel the Wheel of the Year turning. We are moving from the end of summer to the beginning of fall. The Wheel creaks as it transits from Lughnasadh, the Feast of Lugh and the harvest of the grain, to Mabon which is the Autumnal Equinox and the harvest of the vine.
I sense this transition in my surroundings. The leaves of the chestnut trees, the first trees here to turn, are growing brown and crinkly on the boughs. They have even started to fall. The pumpkins are fat and colorful on their vines. Grape arbors at the local winery are bent with the weight of the fruit. People are enjoying their last vacation days at the beaches, and the children have trooped off to their first week of school, leaving adults sighing with relief. The days are noticeably shorter as the daylight lessens, hurrying to that moment at the equinox when daylight and the night’s darkness are in perfect balance with one another. The evenings are cooler, and we have begun to sleep with the windows open. The crickets are chirping in the pampas grass, and it is a sound that I wait all year to hear–like the peeping frogs in the early spring.
I sense this transition deep inside. With the coming of fall comes a sadness and a moment when I hold my breath. It is a unique feeling owned singularly by this time of year. My mother says that it is the result of going back to school for most of my life: when the summer ended, when vacation ended, when we left Cape Cod and returned to the metro St. Louis area, when carefree days ended, and when school began. It was a time of endings and a stepping-off point for a new beginning. It has always been a bittersweet time of year for me which is, perhaps, one of the reasons why I so love the climbing vine of the same name. The glittering brilliance of summer is fading, and a different brilliance waxes in the periphery. Soon, that brilliance will take center stage in one of the briefest of all seasons.
I sense this transition in how I live. The air conditioner is turned off, and the windows are open. The artificial air moves out of the house so that the crisp air of the season can enter. I start to think of heavier soups and stews as opposed to barbecues. The breezy clothes of summer are worn less as sweaters and jackets come to the forefront of the closet. The cats are shedding fewer hairs, and the collies’ thick undercoat has started to grow. I need a blanket on my bed at night, and socks are starting to look good. I think twice now about taking a plunge into the water at the beach. The water is getting cold now, as opposed to being briskly refreshing.
Summer is not quite over. Fall has not quite arrived. In just a few days, the official tourist season will end where I live and in less than a month, the equinox will wink, and I will be caught in the swirl of approaching Samhain. This is a short season. It is the shortest of all seasons of the year. If I hold my breath too long, I will miss it. Truly, it is bittersweet