It's been a long time since I've thought this way, of the seasons of the year yielding a mythology we live by. I had no reason not to think this way, given that both Quakers and Episcopalians can skew romantic about the seasons, and rare individuals of each even call themselves pagan. In fact, the liturgical Christian traditions follow a liturgy of seasons, and mystical Christian traditions offer a glimpse of the movement of the year as well.
When I was younger, I was what I called a kitchen witch, making my own rituals in solitude, following the seasons of the year. This faded with my years as a professor, even though my religious life didn't give me the hands-on relationship with life that I wanted. (Correction: Membership in the Religious Society of Friends did, but I've been 90 miles from Meeting for 21 years. The Episcopal Church put me too far from the feeling of sacredness.)
We need our rituals, whether dressed Wiccan or pagan or Christian (or one of the many other religions we profess). Those who have stripped ourselves of rituals because they're "pagan" lose our moorings to the seasons and to the earth. Those without rituals that speak to them frantically try to rip rituals from others by brandishing the word "Satanic", or create a mockery of ritual that worships hatred, bullying, and totalitarianism (MAGA rallies, I'm looking at you.)
I think about what Autumn says to me -- golden and bittersweet, rejoicing at the leaves and wrapping up against the chill. Saying goodbye (Les's death still resonates) and hugging the last of harvest to my arms. Snuggling with cats -- always snuggling with cats.
Hoping it makes for good poetry now that I vow not letting work become everything.
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