Reflections on a Late Summer Day in September

On a late summer day in September 2021, I went for a long walk at a nature preserve near my home. It was late afternoon, and I was alone. The air was just starting to feel dry, the light was noticeably softer and the sweet scent of leaves and meadow grasses was wafting through the air in a prelude to autumn. At 82º the air felt cool and crisp after months of Southern heat, heavy with oppressive humidity.

The transitioning seasons are by far my favorite time of the year. Spring and autumn are when I am most inspired, most present, most embodied (and let’s face it, most physically comfortable) as the weather distances itself from the extremes of summer and winter. The natural rhythms of the earth are easy to observe and feel. I remember that we, too, thrive when we honor our cycles.

When I’m walking in the woods, I prefer to be more present with my surroundings, so I walk in silence. After about 30 minutes, the downloads started coming through and I found this piece coming alive inside my mind. I dictated quick notes into my phone and revisited them later when I would be able to sort out the ideas that were suddenly flowing.

Late Summer in September

During late summer in September, I miss the early morning calls of jet-black crows—no doubt conspiring mischief the way that only crows and ravens can—the way their feathers shine like the satin on a tuxedo.

I long for ravens… Memories of the spooky croak of their voices come to mind. Crisp and guttural, they nearly echo amongst the California redwoods, cloaked in the cool, morning mist of the Pacific coast. Those majestic trees don’t grow in these woods, but we too have our own brand of magic.

In the woods of South Carolina, the shriek of bossy blue jays darting about in the pines delights me just as well. Although rarely spotted, their raucous calls alert me to their presence, and I am comforted to know I am among them, even if they are judging me like old ladies who think they know better. I am certain they are scheming just like their corvid cousins—the winged spies of the forest.

I walk along the edge of the forest in a semi-trance, soothed by the gentle, monotonous hum of a late summer meadow. The noise brings me to the present moment and calms my nervous system better than even the best binaural beats ever will.

Grasshoppers spring from tall blades of grass, bees collect pollen for their hives and crickets continue their serenade while dragonflies zip past. I smile at all of them in greeting, grateful for the important role that each one plays in the ecosystem and marveling at the intelligence of nature.

My skin is warm. I can feel the first drops of sweat are about to break the barriers of my pores before beading up between my shoulder blades and flowing down my spine. The sensation brings me back into my body and I remember I’m not standing still.

I notice the sweet scent of drying grasses and the sleepiness of the nearby stream, nearly still without recent rain. The last of the wildflowers burst open in a cheerful finale of yellow before they return to the earth to sleep. Eastern tiger swallowtails float from bloom to bloom on broad wings.

I pass an old fence post, soft and grumpy with rot and lichens. What animals were once contained within its boundaries? The monarch butterflies flit by, gorging on the late summer nectar as they begin their annual migration to Mexico. I briefly consider following them.

Like a winged bullet from the bushes, I am suddenly assaulted by a large grasshopper. I’m startled, but I don’t mind. Rudeness is but a construct and this creature means no harm.

An eastern bluebird perches on a rusted strand of barbed wire fencing. It reminds me of my mother, gone eight years ago last week.

After Summer Comes the Fall

Just as the sunflowers bow their heads, pregnant with seeds after summer blooming, I too feel myself turning inward as autumn approaches. With the same speed that the light fades–slowly and gradually–I begin to retreat. My focus is shifting to the hidden caverns of my inner world in preparation for the cold, dark winter.

Once the trees release their leaves to the earth to decay and nourish their roots, they stand tall and bare. I wonder if they feel naked and exposed. This is the time of year when I feel the most lonely.

Late summer is both a relief from the blistering heat of mid-summer and a disappointing reminder of what’s to come. I am offended by the winter cold down to my bones. Nevertheless, I welcome it with gratitude—its visit to these parts will be brief.

The Necessity of Winter

Winter permits me to slow down—permission I would not previously allow myself otherwise but am learning to grant.

Our society leads us to believe that we must be in a perpetual state of summer, i.e.: production. We’ve built systems dependent upon our constant labor and over-consumption. Nowhere in the natural world does a system like this exist. It goes against the laws of nature, to be productive at every moment. It’s uncomfortable, unreasonable, and unsustainable.

Like a weathered old barn weighted down by the ice and snow of two hundred winters, you too will break and fall to the ground. You will be humbled to recalibrate if you don’t allow time and space for rest. Better to allow the rest to come without fighting it; and to plan for it proactively. The daffodils cannot bloom in spring without a state of dormancy, and we are not so different from them.

The winter is where my shadow lurks. The frightened inner child of my psyche that’s been hiding from the light emerges when the cold darkness comes. I am learning it is best not to ignore her. Like every child, she just longs to be seen and heard. The more I resist her, the harder she insists, so I’m beginning to approach her with curiosity.

This year I’ve been learning to welcome this wounded part of myself. To save her from exile, I invite her into the light and encourage her to express her needs from the safety of my lap.

When the frost bites through the black night, I hold space for her wounds. I often cry with her—my body acting as a vessel for her grief, frustration and disappointment. I try to give her the comfort she longed for and never received.

Eventually, we thank each other for our mutual effort, patience, and acknowledgment. We are tired and welcome the light of spring. 

For More Nature Musings

• 3 Winter Poems: Embracing the Quiet Season
• Red-Winged Blackbirds: A New Perspective
• Magic in Jackson Hole

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