Last evening, I was talking with a friend about the significance of September 22nd. Each season brings its own questions. Autumn is the season in which we harvest from the seeds which were planted in the spring.
As I sat in the dawning of early morning, journal in hand, a poem came:
A chill in the night air
A crystalline light
A bluebird sky
Time to bring out the quilt
A warm cat kneading dough on my lap
Quiet Quiet Quiet
What will I bring to the Harvest Table?
This question feels timelier than those I ask on the Eve of the (calendar) New Year.
What are you noticing about yourself as the sun moves? Do you remember what you were intending or thinking about earlier this year? What seeds did you plant?
