Autumn is coming.
I can smell it on the air that breezes lazily through the window, wafting its lush, damp scent and mingling with the silky smoke of cedar incense that I burn in thanks to Hermes, the first of many in deference to my debt.
Stepping out of my building just past dawn on my way to work, I paused, closed my eyes, and drank the sunlight as it dappled my face, its rosy fingers finding the cracks in leaf cover and spreading out as far as it could stretch.
Autumn is coming. I am ready.
As the equinox approaches, I find an eagerness arising in my stomach. The trees begin to hint at their autumn fires and I am dazzled by them as I ride the rocky waves of mountains stained by time.
This time of year is when I feel the most alive. As the trees yawn their fall colors, settling into winter’s sleep, I bury myself in the delights of the season. Hot, spiced apple cider, its heat making curls of steam in the cooling air; pumpkins selling at the grocery store, waiting to be made into pies or lanterns; corn mazes and haunted hayrides on crisp, chilly Friday nights. As the blood of the year fades, bearing witness to the bones of chill, we come to the crossroads of the year, the time between, the time of change. Autumn. The lush fruits of summer’s labors give way and nourish us; we enjoy the spoils of our works now, delighting in their beauty.
Now is the time I spend turning inwards, reflecting on my path and on myself. Between the Autumn Equinox and Halloween (Samhain), I go over the labors of the last year, where I’ve been and where I hope to go. For the last three years, I have done this, spent six weeks in reflection and mulling on my current state. Sunday is the equinox and it begins this yearly rite.
In the past, I have tried to commit to writing every few days my thoughts on my progress. This year, I will make no such commitments. The writing will come forth or it will remain in the mental aether of my mind, not quite formed enough to take shape in the written word. We shall see how things go from here.