The fall equinox is coming up. Holidays make me think of family. This year, I include the family I lost.
It’s supposed to be a time of bounty: the gardens overflowing, the grapes coming in to be crushed, the hard blue sky of autumn whispering, “hurry, time’s a-wasting.” A time for feasting with friends and reveling in sunsets; a time for sporadic hints of the wild weather to come.
But what are we to make of Harvest—of the autumnal equinox—when the crops have failed or burned? How do we celebrate plenty when we are bereft?
How, in short, do we observe the Wheel of the Year when life isn’t cooperative with its narratives? When tragedy comes at High Spring, or birth at Hallows, or joblessness at Yule, how do we continue our traditions and practices when they don’t seem to fit?
This is the riddle I am presented this year.
These seasons of harvesting have not been kind to my wife and me this year. Harvest rolls around and I am poorer, and…
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