Earth Pathways Showcase

It comes on the day when you first see a kind of drooping in the leaves. Not a thirsty, still-green wilt that rainfall will quench; more a tired, ready start of a surrender.

It comes when you see the hedges becoming adorned with berries and hips, then when you notice you have put the lights on at dinner, then when you first feel cold in the morning, then when your feet first kick crisp now-fallen leaves with an urge you can’t resist. When something about the air is lighter. Or comfortingly apple-scented.

And you find yourself smiling back over the year, now that memories have had time to clock up. And you notice yourself quietly sorry for what it turned out not to bring or not to be, for what didn’t fruit, what didn’t work out. And you know in your heart, as you pack away your sandals and button up your thicker coat, you know you are wiser for this — even if you can’t quite feel it yet.

Because even the rotten fruit and the unpretty leaves still nourish the soil that will feed next year. The wheel turns.

Turning Autumn © Mo Kendall 2023

I’m here in the stillness of this solstice morning. Standing still. Allowing myself to be; to stand outside my front door with my back to all the jobs that will always be there. But dawn is breaking, and I shift now to better see the glowing patch of sky where the horizon will soon birth the Sun. We have this hour, the sky and I. An hour full of quiet — save for the birds who have started to herald the day with their chirpy, chatty songs.

My imagination skips to this close future, fast-forwards to conjure up the oranges and pinks and yellows that the sky might begin to turn. Or will clouds drift, changing the picture; smothering the colours like tipping smudgy paintbrush water all over your unfinished work? I can’t know (who ever knows?) the mysteries that lie ahead. I stand still and watch the sky for whatever colours the new dawn might paint today.

Solstice Dawn © Mo Kendall

It’s not quite dawn, but there’s enough light to see that dense mist hides the fields in the valley. It looks like carded, unspun sheep’s fleece, spread over today’s light frost. The cows must be huddled in their barn. I huddle my mug into my jumper, sipping hot tea down to cold toes, bridging mittened hands and full heart. Full of awe and thanks for this moment. Only empty hedges and spidery trees defy the thickest mist, their coal- black forms jumping out of the smudgy-white as if someone drew them on it in charcoal. Steam from my drink rises, dances, dissipates, perhaps eventually entwining with the wisps climbing the hills. Muted colours show through it here and there: mossy green on the nearest slopes, greyish lilac on the ones beyond, soft smokey blue of the sky. They’re gentle on my eyes, like watching a slow and lovely dream. A dream of a dreaming land, with a promise of crops and flowers that are tucked under soil tucked under frost tucked under mist. Awaited and expected – with love.

Hidden © Mo Kendall

The forest dances bold in its Autumning, twirling its rich-coloured leaves, showing off its shiny hips, gaudy haws and fat blackberries. The busy squirrels tell me, the sumptuous mushrooms tell me, the acorns fallen in the now-paler sunlight tell me: “Here is Autumn!”. My heart applauds, wanting to see more. The forest tells me how it is drying now, and ageing, through the crunchings and rustlings of its crisp carpet: the leaves that would have twirled down last week. The twigs tell me this too, filling the air with sharp snapping under my boots. My youngest son appears, hands full of forest treasures. He sets out a few beech nuts on a stump for squirrels or fairies to feast upon, stuffing the rest of his finds into my pockets. At home they fill our nature table, reminding us of all the things falling to the ground in this beautiful season. Some conkers get given cocktail-stick spokes; white yarn is wrapped around these to look like spiders’ webs. We hang them up, my sons remembering that they are specifically orb webs, as opposed to other types. Some pinecones, upside- down, get wooden beads pushed onto their little stalks, a flared-open beechnut case glued on top of it for a hat, sycamore helicopter wings: a family of autumn fairies. We are busy with gathering and treasuring.

Treasures © Mo Kendall