Dancing beneath the blue night, rainbow lights shimmering across Steve’s kit, and the rain’s breath still hanging in the air, summer died. It was a palpable moment; the warm season pulled like the stitching holding the sun’s kiss to my cheek.
The loss floats away, one more unraveled remnant torn from time’s fabric. My first autumn thought is always: as the leaves fall, someday so shall we– Hades inherits all and all that.
Yet, I’m not standing on some lonely precipice.
Angus Mohr plays. All around me, the other dancers leap and land, swirl and sway. I’ve spent the day with friends who have become my family and family that are my friends.
This is not a funeral–its a wake. Waking us to see past the greedy desire that life remain unchanged. Waking us to the treasures of harvest and the pleasures of banding together to face the cold coming dark.
As winter will the ground, sorrow hollows us, but that clean empty space is fertile soil. (Maybe that’s why I love that song so much.) On one of my last hikes of the summer, most of the wild flowers had faded and everything had gone to seed. I thought about the tough spiny husks that had taken the place of tender petals and realized that life has to work this way. Months of snow and freeze will break down the protective shell, foraging animals will drive those seeds into the earth. The decay of it’s shelter will become the germinating flower’s first food. A half turn of time’s wheel, the world will warm and be right again for tender and pretty.
But that’s for later. For now, we gather in the gathering night. Celebrating the harvest of the sacrificed season, and preparing for the days when all our warmth must come from each other.