Come August, I find that my thoughts tend to wander to something deeper, darker, cooler. Summer is indeed delicious, and I am thankful for the warm, sunny reprieve and long days, but something about autumn stirs my soul.
It is a time of release. A time for introspection, for harvesting what was planted in the spring. It is a time when the air is infused with magic, wafting smoke from burning fires. Leaves are painted in glowing shades of orange and copper, against a crisp blue sky and low-hanging puffy clouds. Fallen leaves crunch beneath adventurous feet. Harvest moon, glowing orange against twilight, rising over the bay, shimmering across the water.
Spiced apple cider simmers on the stove, the scent of pumpkin confections filling the warm house. Creative endeavors are embarked upon, and books that have sat waiting for pages to be turned are placed in eager hands.
The veil thins. Graveyards are visited, ghost stories told, ancestors honored. Spirits are felt, dancing on the cold wind. Candles ceremoniously lit, and incense burned in ritual. Tarot cards and crystal balls are placed on tables, conjuring past and future images. Cauldron and broom beckon. Herbs hung to dry, scents hinting at the enchantment they contain.
Pumpkins lay ripe on the vine, brought home for adornment. Tactile delights recalled with a knitted sweater slipped overhead, a cozy blanket to cuddle with, layers to dress in, boots for striding about.
Autumn casts its spell, invoking the mysterious and the unseen. Days shorten and nights lengthen, calling forth a time for deep dreaming and magic.