Wherever you live on this planet, you’ve experienced seasons. Seasons happen because Earth spins on a tilted axis. When the North Pole tilts toward the sun, it is summer in the Northern Hemisphere; when the South Pole tilts toward the sun, it is winter in the Northern Hemisphere. In autumn, Earth is neither tilted toward nor away from the sun.1
Autumn, or fall, as we Americans call it, shortened from the 16th-century British expression “fall of the leaf,” is a transitional season bridging summer and winter, a time of harvest, of cooler, shorter days and thinning sunlight.
For many of us, it’s a time of endings—beach time, vacation time are over. Gone are the fireflies, butterflies, and pesky mosquitoes. The marigolds and petunias we planted in June are now shriveled brown blossoms. Our summer romances are over; the birds that sang to us through June, July, and August have departed. Canopies of green leaves that sheltered us from summer’s blaze are crispy around the edges. Like all living things, we feel the coming descent of the cold, dark months.
What does the arrival of this transitional season mean to you? What has been born in your inner world during the summer? What cycle has been completed? What are you looking forward to in the months to come?
The mythologist Michael Meade refers to autumn as a threshold time when old structures fall away.2 The shedding of old forms (or leaves!) is necessary for new growth. This is as true for us as it is for the trees in our forests: something must die for something new to be born. Our ancestors noted seasons by attending to the visible signs of change: the melting of lake ice, the ripening of berries, the disappearance of loons. What changes have occurred in your life recently? What new projects, ideas, inspirations, commitments have entered your world? What old story or pattern of behavior is asking to be shed? What emotional wound is ready to be harvested for the wisdom it has provided?
Psychiatrist, Jungian analyst, and author Jean Shinoda Bolen talks about transitional times as liminal spaces when we are at a threshold but have not moved through to the other side. This is like being in a waiting room, or as Bolen writes, like being inside a cocoon.3 Autumn into winter is a cocooning time, when we, like caterpillars, are preparing to transform. The long cold days of winter invite us to enjoy heavier meals, go to sleep earlier, move slower through our days. We leave behind the lightness and freedoms of summer and enter into a different landscape.
Your transition may involve a return to school or a new job or returning to an old job with a new attitude. We mark our transition with new clothes, a new haircut, starting a new diet, or joining a gym. But unlike the predictable cycles in nature, or the caterpillar that emerges from its cocoon as a butterfly, we don’t know how we will evolve. We can count on summer becoming autumn and winter following fall—but what does the metaphor of death and rebirth mean for you?
Every season sparks changes in our minds and bodies. In the fall, we respond to the shorter, cooler, darker days by producing more melatonin, which makes us sleepier during the day. Our appetite increases, and our mood, influenced by sunlight and lower dopamine and serotonin, may take a dive. The colder air dries out our skin and the fragile tissue inside our nostrils, making us more susceptible to nasal infections. We may even shed more hair during this season.4
We can think of autumn as the ancient Celts did, as a time when the veil between the visible and invisible worlds grew thin.5 What in summer was shrouded by leaf and flower now bares itself? What has become more visible to you in your inner or outer worlds? During this harvest season, what have you planted in your personal, work, or spiritual life that has borne fruit? What bounty will sustain you in the months ahead? What seeds lie dormant in your imagination?
What is the one word you would use to describe yourself now?
