Autumn is here.
Can you feel it?
Witnessing (and embodying) the seasons is an integral part of our lives. If we take notice of the earth’s movements, we fortify our connection with the natural world and understand that we are not separate from it. We are of it!
Grounded in the elements, I’ve always marvelled at the slow but inevitable shifts in the cycles of the world. How one week I am in what feels like winter, and without knowing it, finding myself in spring the next. I loved shedding layers and spending my days in the sun just as much as I craved the coziness of winter, the darker mornings, and hot chocolate hugged in my hands.
I grew up in humid, sub-tropical Brisbane, so really there’s just hot (summer) and less hot (winter). We didn’t experience drastic changes as we journeyed through the wheel of the year (I didn’t see snow until I was 19!), and you could bet we were in short sleeves year-round. The Queensland sun is like no other!
Even so, I loved watching the seasons come and go, landmarking them internally in quiet anticipation throughout the year. The seasons held more importance to me. I could enjoy a day at the beach, but it was the difference between spending my whole morning in the water or snuggled, sheltered in coves to watch the waves roll in. Contrasting experiences, in the same place. Both magical.
Things changed when I lived in England. I had ‘flown the nest’ in early spring, arriving in the northern hemisphere in late summer. Catapulted to the inverse of my little corner of the world, I thrived in the low humidity and extraordinarily long days. What do you mean, dusk isn’t until 8:30 pm?!
But as I made roots in the East Midlands, in a small university town overshadowed by the likes of Birmingham and Leicester, I sat in what felt like a montage I’d only seen in films. The cold came quick. Leaves turned brown and clung to their homes until, sure enough, I was in autumn. It didn’t FEEL like autumn to me. It felt a heck of a lot like winter.
I took these more extreme seasons in my stride. I welcomed the setting sun at 3:00 o’clock in the afternoon, drank copious amounts of mulled wine, and ritualised Sunday roasts over the fresh salads typical of my home. I wore more layers than any of my other exchange friends (who were unsurprisingly endemic to Europe), and gaped open-mouthed at the frost and ice forming on lampposts and footpaths. Winter was coming!
My experience of acclimation was filled with wonder. I saw snow! I dried my clothes on the radiator! And learned that even though outside was floating around 0 degrees, indoors was sensibly heated to not warrant a jumper at all. How different this is from home, I thought. And thus, my passion for season-watching truly began.
Once I had returned to Australia and our temperate ways, I couldn’t help but feel cheated of the magic I experienced north. Where was the dramatic leaf change, the autumnal colour palette? Where was the snow, the frost, the ice? Where were the flowering daffodils in spring?
I dragged my feet through the scorching summer, feeling nothing of the fun and expansion my northern friends described, but a withering tiredness that can only come from months of 100% humidity. I found solace in the abundant South-East Queensland beaches and waterfalls, grateful for what we did have in natural wonder.
But I was determined! And came to appreciate the subtleties of my beautiful, humid home, especially when I moved my life and soul to the Sunshine Coast Hinterland. Living on 50 acres in the valley of the hills connected me to the earth and its rhythms more than city life ever could. Maybe I took more notice, or maybe this is how we are meant to live.
Summer was marked by a huge spike in rainfall, misty green hills, and muddy, sloshy earth. Amongst the humidity of the burning hot days, with 8 am seeing 30C+ already, cool rainforest waterholes and crystalline beaches served as our respite. We’d stay out past dusk, serenaded by the cicadas and the blanket of warmth that enveloped us for months on end.
Winter was crisp, but comfortably so. We could rise with the sun, lie in its rays without breaking a sweat, and marvel at the frosted paddocks cloaked in fog. Our valley was a quiet cocoon—stillness, the way of life. Broccoli and cauliflower flourished in the garden over tomatoes and capsicums. My plants thrived away from the constant heat of summer. Wood was cut and collected daily, our lifeline in our airy besa-block cottage.
I felt lucky at home.
Reflected in the Tao…
It wasn’t until I dove deep into Taoism that I truly embodied the seasons, not just watched them. Taoism gave me an explanation for everything, as I found it to be a branch of philosophy that is, in some part, described by the earth and the human body. Each season is an embodiment of the elements, which are phases of Qi (energy, life-force). These phases, known as the Wu Xing, is a way to describe the shifts and changes of Qi through the seasons, explaining the movement of energy, the emotions or tendencies we experience, and the organs within us. There are five phases— five elements, five seasons (yes, five seasons!)
Late Summer, or the ‘centre of all seasons’, is the embodiment of Earth energy— the axis that life centres itself on. It grounds us, gives us stability, and can feel like a homecoming. I see it as a place to land on, before the flight. It is deeply connected to nourishment, with our food, how we take care of ourselves, and how we consume or digest the world around us. Individually, we cultivate clarity and harmony, as we step away from the expansiveness of Fire (Summer) and eventually simmer down to Water (Winter).
Though the Earth element is without time, as it is present amongst all seasons, it is marked by the transition between peak yang (Summer) and the ascension of yin (Autumn). For us Southerners, this is usually around late February—March in our Gregorian calendar.
Being early April, we’ve just left our Late Summer ‘season’ and are now truly entering Autumn. Similar to the Pagan celebration of the Autumn Equinox, Late Summer is a time to celebrate and harvest the fruits (literally and figuratively) of Summer…and prepare for the coming Winter.
Autumn is a time for letting go. The shedding of burdens and weights that no longer serve us, akin to leaves falling from trees. We make space, in order for the growth and rebirth of Spring to take hold. It is a season of alchemy— discerning experiences of the past as lessons we can take with us into the future.
My family and I celebrated the arrival of Autumn unknowingly. Together, we spent our Easter long weekend closing the book on my Summer garden, picking the produce and herbs before everything lays to rest. Our little deck was stacked with nearly 50 pumpkins, typical of the orange colour associated with Late Summer, and our hands laden with the last of the tomatoes, greens, eggplants, capsicums and chillis.
That weekend, the wind had a coolness to it. The days were noticeably shorter. Autumn, had come.
I want to leave you with these potent words from Gardens of the Mind by Joan Law-Smith, a moving book of poetry observing nature’s movement through the seasons. This particular poem is by Elizabeth Jennings, English poet of the mid 1900s
Oh I just loved this! I took a 6 month hiatus on socials (and Substack too) but my first piece back was inspired by the seasons. I love this shifting of the weather and really feel like summer is actually our winter phase (so many of our plants wither and die, it’s too harsh to be out in the elements etc.)