The Trickiness of the Dark Season

I always get a little nervous in Autumn as the days shorten and the rain falls. Did I get enough time in the garden and in the woods, walking, camping and hiking, soaking up the rays of sun? Did I notice the bees disappearing inside the Comfrey flowers with tiny satchels of pollen on their legs? Did I fill my tank enough to survive the coming months of darkness? And then I often wonder (usually for just a short time) why on earth I love living in a place where I spend so much of the year wondering when the sun will return.

In most traditions, this time of year is celebrated with harvest festivals and holidays honoring the ancestors. We begin the transition into darkness by remembering those who have passed. In Chasing Ravens, Anouk’s experience with the Rusalki, the alluring water spirits, is beyond the world of the living. In some ways it’s like a descent into an underworld. While Anouk’s trip there is necessary—it’s the only place she can find what she needs on her journey—it’s also essential that she doesn’t stay a minute longer than she has to, in order to stay alive.

That’s why this season can be tricky. I think we have to accept the invitation for dormancy, like the plants, to strip down to the essentials, the root of life. We go inward, to a place where we can gain wisdom and rest. But it can also be tempting (at least for me) to get a little stuck in rumination or pining for sunnier days. I think the comforting salve of inner personal work, carbohydrates, cleaning closets and crafting (all of which I love) are great ways to get through the dark days, but perhaps there’s more.

This year, I’m going to try to consciously use this time to learn some new things about the birds and bees, so to speak. I tend to be more observant during the Spring and Summer months, but what are the birds and the bees doing this time of year? How can I get to know them better? Don’t we need to keep learning in all of our relationships to stay fully engaged? Perhaps my task is not just to look inward during this season, but to learn more about what’s going on outside. I know that so much goes on under the surface of the soil and in the trees, often invisible or unnoticed in Autumn and Winter. What more can I learn, become aware of, or observe that deepens my connection?

In What the Robin Knows, Jon Young quotes a San Bushman who said, “If one day I see a small bird and recognize it, a thin thread will form between me and that bird. If I just see it but don’t really recognize it, there is no thin thread. If I go out tomorrow and see and really recognize that same individual small bird again, the thread will thicken and strengthen just a little. Every time I see and recognize that bird, the thread strengthens. Eventually it will grow into a string, then a cord, and finally a rope. This is what it means to be a Bushman. We make ropes with all aspects of the creation in this way.”

Maybe the gift of this season is not only to plan for the Spring, but to brighten up our lives with new understandings of the natural world around us by growing some of these threads. Maybe that’s one of the kinds of light we need this time of year. Robert Bly, when speaking about Thoreau’s writing, said, “As we read Thoreau’s work, especially his prose, we slowly become aware of a light in and around the squirrel, the ant, the woodchuck, the hawk, that belongs to them and not the eyes observing or the brain producing words.”

What might we learn about Nature through reading, classes, awareness, observation and direct relationship that will bring light to the season and deepen our connection with the Natural World, now and with the eventual Spring? It’s something to consider, and it just might make the dark season a little less tricky.