Melancholy to mindfulness: reframing summer’s end

Continuous rhythm: Of season, seed and song

Greetings from the moss,

This week I’m sharing with you a piece that will take you outdoors and immerse you in the nature of this quiet place, and which was written for a recent workshop.

Of season, seed and song

A new month slipping seasons; a threshold is about to be crossed. The briefest sunlight through early cloud turns birch to gold, rowan to rust. 

Out for a paper, the night’s chill lingers under a blanket of grey. Rooks debate if indeed summer is over.

After gardening, and lunch, and

Sarah Fay

’s replay review, I go for a walk.

Contemplation

When does autumn begin?  Is it today, September 1st, a convenient date and divider for weather forecasters? Is it the solar inflection point of September 22nd? Perhaps it’s when the rowan berries ripen - in which case it was several weeks ago. Or when the swallows leave? They are here still, just.

When the robin changes his song, and the nights visibly draw in?

When dew lies heavy on the grass? When moist air highlights nature's own webmaster?

Or when frost’s fingers begin to probe? 

Observation

There’s a conversation high in the pine that I am not party to. Merlin tells me the calls are from spotted flycatchers but I see only the tree creeper 

Purple flowers dot the grass alongside the path. I now know that their name comes from folklore associated with their truncated roots: it tells that they were abbreviated by demon's teeth. The plant is Devil’s bit scabious.

Devil’s bit scabious (Succisa pratensis)

I recently read the plaque on the bench that I regularly pass and discovered we are the same age. I’m not sure which of us is weathering better; my flaking layers of paint are perhaps better hidden.

At this level ling heather (Calluna vulgaris) still carries purple flowers but the grasses have turned to gold. Their panicles trace the movement of the air while the leaves in the tree canopy voice the seemingly ever present breeze.

A jay glides between food source and cache.

Ripe barley awaits the blade; field edge puddles a rink for pond skaters. 

Reflection

Air moves following invisible pathways, its own navigation around this satellite in play. Down below, my boots are anchored to the Earth. I wonder what the winds see, what they read into the things that we do to our planet. Summer's end seems to bring an inevitable melancholy before autumn’s treasure chest opens up for examination. 

All these leaves, all this light collected, energy stored, about to be drawn back down to the roots and the empty shells discarded. Yet this is not waste; not litter casually thrown from a car window at speed. Here the old decay slowly, provide shelter - a winter blanket - and nourishment, their riches darkening the soil for the spring that will inevitably come.

If I look back to my writing from the same week last year, the melancholy is there too. 

There’s a warmth to the sun that now feels increasingly precious. You get to a point in the year where you feel that summer is fast slipping away. It makes you want to grab onto every moment, to hold it close like a dear friend about to leave.

Looking online, I discover that I am late to the party in recognising that there is such a thing as end of summer blues, but then I’m not trending on TikTok. The weather I know exacerbates it - this has been a late, wet and often cold summer. It’s easier to feel optimistic when the sun shines, but perhaps age plays a part too, the years seem to slip by more quickly in our relative perception. Perhaps subconsciously we know that there are fewer left ahead of us.

Rather than slip into the vortex, I flip the coin, change perspective. Sense the breeze on skin, the sound of water - a balm. The surface of the pond reflects not just grey cloud but silver light too, and through the briefest of breaks there is blue above. Remember the scent of the heather and the buzzing, busy, bees.

Every beginning has an end, but in nature endings cycle through to new beginnings. 

Wood pigeons still coo to their mates.

The wild raspberries are over, but there are redcurrants gone wild. They are sharp and seedy, but a reminder of how vivid nature can be.

And all it takes is one, small, seed.

Continuous rhythm

After writing this, I rediscover another quotation from John Muir, often referred to as the founder of the conservation movement:

Nature is ever at work building and pulling down, creating and destroying, keeping everything whirling and flowing, allowing no rest but in rhythmical motion, chasing everything in endless song out of one beautiful form into another.

This week’s letter was largely composed using voice notes while out for a walk. As I sensed myself slipping too deeply into melancholy, I consciously chose to turn a corner and look for positives. Seasons - and events - will inevitably affect our mood. It’s important to make the most of any opportunity to get outside, to walk ourselves a little calmer, and to recognise that endings and new beginnings are part of the continuous rhythmic motion of life. Nature will always transform and rejuvenate.

If you’ve enjoyed reading or listening to this, please let me know with a like, comment or share - in email you’ll find these options at the top and bottom.

Until next week,

Encore

I’m finding it interesting to look back, to recognise that last year too the birch leaves were already dropping like yellow confetti, the beech were starting to wear gold, and frost arrived. It makes this present moment in a cold northwesterly, verging on wintry, feel a little less strange. “Everything in endless song” as John Muir put it.

All words and images copyright © Michela Griffith except where otherwise noted

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