Come and walk a while in the forest with me. This sacred, holy place inside me. Where the Circle was birthed. Where I found home. Where I discovered I was more than what I saw in my dreams. Where parts of me I may never have met, suddenly came alive.
Walking beneath its branches, slowly revealing more sky as the days go by, the banners of wind gaining strength, gently pulling the leaves from their homes and offering the gift of flight, however brief. I’m reminded of the soul of Icarus. Little moments of freedom, gently falling in a timeless dance all around me, painting the earth in red.
I look toward the sky, revealed between the beautifully crooked limbs like gothic stained glass, the soft autumn sunlight gilding everything in a rippling dance of gold. The trees that line my path ahead arch toward each other like the soaring roof of a cathedral older than the pagan stones that house the churches, and I feel something here, breathing with me, that has dwelled here far longer than time.
The earth beneath my feet is solid, no longer softened by warmth or sunlight. A protective shell as it seeks to sleep, its blanket of snow not far away now. The spreading fire of fallen leaves crunches beneath each step, reminding me of the beauty of breaking. Of surrendering. Of knowing the peace after the fall.
The air smells differently here. Deeper. Darker. The divine incense of sacred smoke and rich, wet earth. I taste it across my tongue, feel it with every breath like a hand caressing my throat. I don’t resist the pull, the urge, the inspiration within me, as I bring the ground closer and place my hands against its surface. Cool against my skin, quiet, like sleeping. Or waiting.
Closing my eyes, I breathe deep. And feel the hum of a world beyond our sight beneath my palms, flowing through the roots that speak to me, crawling up the trees that surround and protect me. I listen, the leaves across the ground like playful whispers, the chorus of the forest preparing, its old trunks moaning and creaking like the slow turn of the great Wheel.
Autumn’s dance graces us so briefly. She arrives as a taste on the wind, then performs her divine art, painting the land in shades of blood and brass, before she invites every brushstroke to rise from the canvas and dance with her, vibrantly, full of life, an orchestra of magick, one final performance before the great quiet comes.
And it is coming.
Woven within my breath, like a single silver thread, I feel the echo of the promised chill. Opening my eyes, the wind within my forest rises for a moment, confirming a standing invitation long accepted. Soon, the fire that surrounds me will dwindle, its last embers present for merely days before the snow falls.
Rising to my feet once more, I continue, pulling my long cloak tighter around me. It trails along the packed earth, bringing along the leaves that wish to join me, accompanying my walk like curious little spirits. I sigh as I glance around these great trees, filled with shadows and mysteries, and that sacred hidden music just for me.
I feel as though I walk somewhere in-between, the world around me in transition, the final harvests sown, the preparation for Winter underway. Cardinals and crows call out here and there, never questioning, trusting what their bodies and spirits know. And the ravens watch closely, unbothered, observant, and wise.
Far in the distance, a wolf howls, turning my head toward its sound like gentle fingers grasping my chin, a song my soul will never ignore. I wonder what they’re up to. They grow more coordinated as the cold creeps in, the carefree play of Summer giving way to the need to work together to continue the pack’s work through the Winter.
I smile as I imagine the past Spring’s pups meeting the coming snows for the first time.
Another ribbon of cold moves through the trees, and I’m grateful for my hood. I sigh again, wishing this season lasted longer. Everything about the Autumn is magick to me. The stunning colours, the shifting currents in the air, the way the energy around me begins to change, subtly, quietly, but so powerfully.
The cooling air tastes the freshest, reminding me of mountain lakes, while the sunlight warms my skin in ways it never has in Summer. The light is different. Clearer, bolder. There is a sense of play in the air that feels significant, important, like a specific echo from childhood that cannot ever quite be replicated.
But somewhere deep within me, there dwells a piece of my soul that calls to the Winter, that stirs awake when all else goes to ground to sleep.
Soon, it whispers.
Ahead, I see the gap in the trees where my path widens, opening into a small pocket nestled within the forest walls. The little diamond-paned windows glow, a tendril of softly twisting smoke rising from the stone chimney. The sight makes me smile as I draw closer, my body already beginning to feel cozier as the little cottage draws nearer.
Inside, the fire is warm, in perfect contrast to the chill outside. Hanging my cloak by the door, it doesn’t take long to boil water from the river, setting some aside in a stoneware mug while I fill the rest with pieces and flavours from the garden, now lovingly laid to rest until Spring.
As the cottage begins to fill with the comforting scents simmering over the fire, I settle into my favourite chair by the window. Sipping my delightfully hot coffee, I watch the leaves outside dance and chase each other out over the lake, the mountains rising behind it like a quiet giant keeping watch, and I know we will greet the first snowflake within days.
Soon.
But for now…it is quiet.
