The Lost Hours

and the call of the dark

My body is aching for rest, and my mind even more so. I can feel the urge to retreat and I can also feel the impossibility of actually being able to do it. At this time of year, more than any other, I feel like I am going against nature (reluctantly and stubbornly). When the natural world draws in on itself and starts its winter repose, all I want to do is join it. But the salary machine needs oiling.

The night before last the clocks went back an hour, because of an antiquated tradition which imposed change on the rhythm of our days. Whilst I am aware of the original arguments for this, I find it farcical that humans attempt to lever time into a more appropriate and convenient schedule. I don’t want to be told that I can now fit more into a certain time of the day. The culture of optimisation makes me deliberately want to do things even more slowly in some sort of silent protest.

In fields and woods the leaves are falling, laying a colourful carpet before the monochrome tones of winter set in. The skies look sparse again, with so many birds having already started their migration. In the garden the rowan berries are plucked by passing pigeons. I can hear the solitary chirp of the robin, successfully defending its territory and the short supply of invertebrates. Every now and then I hear the shrill whistle of the red kites, forever on the wing, making invisible ribbons overhead. I find them mesmerising to watch. In my head I count the hours left of the weekend (too few) and calculate the days left until I can take some annual leave (too many).

I love this time of year, when it’s not too cold and the unbearable heat of the summer is firmly behind us. During the past week we spent some of the drier evenings outside in front of the chiminea. With a few layers of blankets and a dram or two we stayed out long enough to see Jupiter rising in the east and the nearly-full moon silvering the tree tops.

Where I live, the first foggy mornings of the autumn have descended and the Virginia creepers are hanging onto the last threads of red. For a brief moment everything looks like it’s from another realm, where Baba Yaga could come shambling through the mists in her hen-leg hut.

The wise woman archetype feels apt at this time of year. With roots and seeds belonging to the underworld through the winter, I can’t help but think we’d do well to follow nature’s lead. To withdraw and curl up somewhere to rest and recharge our batteries when reserves are low and our ability to recover needs a helping hand.

I think there’s a strong case for the colder darker seasons bringing insight. With less distractions than the summer months, I’m sure there must be something we can gain, some sort of wisdom to find. A story of resilience perhaps?

Wishing you warmth and lamplight this Samhain.