Gathering Autumn Into My Arms

To grow older is a baptism of gratitude, a sacred ceremony held in the chambers of the heart. Each passing year deepens my appreciation for the world around me, offering a unique peace that envelops my spirit. I am, as the song says, in the autumn of my years.

Gathering things resonates with something ancient inside of me—an echo of tribal instincts that is the essence of womanhood. This act, a timeless tradition, connects me to the collective memory of ancestors who gathered food and herbs, the dance of survival and sustenance. Yet, there is another kind of gathering, a quieter one—a gathering that invites the arranging and sorting of life’s offerings.

I envision the first altars to the gods were not merely for worship but celebrations of the seasons—the cyclical rhythms of nature that shape our lives and identities. Each year, I create my own autumn porch, a ritual imbued with joy. As the leaves hint at turning, I transform my entryway into a celebration the season, showcasing the beauty fleeting moments can offer. Mums and ornamental pumpkins stand proud, while a wreath of twigs entwined with gourdes and leaves graces my door --  a warm invitation to all who pass by. The porch becomes an embodiment of the spirit of harvest and abundance.

Reflecting on my childhood, I remember my mother’s yearly pilgrimage to the mountains, when the Aspens were turning. She’d gather small branches of leaves, pinecones, and fragrant pine bouquets, treasures from the forest floor that sparked her creativity. These simple gifts were transformed into stunning centerpieces, a blend of nature and nurture that became what I now think of as family altars, honoring the fall.

A small wooden bowl of acorns, placed next to a flickering candle, speaks to beauty’s quiet power. This season of harvest, compels us to gather, to arrange, and to reflect. Baskets overflowing with apples become vessels of gratitude as they transform into homemade apple butter, their sweetness a reminder of the earth’s bounty. Hard squashes fill my home with comforting aroma, urging me to prepare for the winter’s embrace. "Get warm," they seem to say, " the chill is coming."

In my favorite chair on the front porch, I find solace, a space for quiet reflection and observation. I witness the neighborhood life—children playing, mothers in motion, fathers mowing, and dogs sprawled on warm concrete, their noses twitching as they take in the scents of change. Autumn afternoons are fleeting, the last gentle tones of warmth before winter descends. My porch, a sanctuary, reflects the beauty of decay, an homage to the quiet that envelops us as days shorten and shadows stretch.

If I peer into the darkness of the cooler, longer nights, I find a small flame burning in my heart—something eternal that beckons me to embrace the cycle of the seasons. We too are part of a grand, unending cycle of gathering, gratitude, and renewal. In the act of autumnal gathering, I’ve found not only beauty but a profound connection to life itself—a tapestry woven from memory, love, and the promise of seasons yet to come.

Gather the scattered pieces,

broken off

broken away.

Place them in a basket

grind them into dust

coat your soul

in what was lost.

Acceptance

makes things whole again

a walking stick before we stumble.

Steps echo the rhythm

as I let myself

be humbled                                                                                        

by the collision of age and dreams

where neither survives.

Be the elder

I tell myself

who writes from a precious heart

those unspeakable secrets

that caused pain and fear

Then lets them go

and note the byline

is not as important

as shedding identity’s skin

embracing in the end

we all return to stardust.

An ancient haunting memory

of a purpose driven life

has caught the sight of God

in old women and butterflies.

As always, thank you for stopping by and reading my words.  I appreciate you.

If something here is worthy to share in your eyes, please restack. And hearts, comments and good juju always help others to find this Substack. May you know magic in the dance of autumn.  Sending love and goodwill,

Stephanie