Reconnecting to rest: Notes on the autumn equinox
How our outlooks can shift with the seasons, the historic significance of nature's calendar and reconnecting with natural processes
I’m writing this as the autumn equinox takes hold. A crisp, misty morning light is filtering through the garden. The grass is awash with dewy droplets – a glimmering jewel on every blade. Spider webs have wrapped the landscape in a delicate lace. Birds are dipping in and out of the shallow bath. Everything else is still.
The dawn of autumn has always stirred an uneasiness in me. I’d often describe it as my favourite season, where visions of bundled layers, crisp leaves and crackling fires would flood my mind as September drew to a close. But deep down I felt daunted. Inevitably, I’d return to dwelling on what autumn also represented – the shorter evenings, damp darkness and decay – an impending ‘end’ to something.
Yet, in the last year or so, I've felt more connected to the movement of the seasons than ever before. I’m welcoming the frosted ambers, mulchy browns and mossy yellows. I want to delve deeper into why autumn and the process of wintering is such a natural path for humans, as part of nature’s cycle – and why we’ve lost sight of it.
A historic harmony
In the Northern Hemisphere, the autumn equinox falls from 21st - 23rd of September, a time where the duration of days and nights are equal, before the nights begin to draw in. In March, the equinox marks the beginning of spring – these dates are flipped for those in the Southern Hemisphere.
Historically, the autumn equinox has been marked and celebrated in a variety of ways across the world. From the Moon Festival in Chinese and Vietnamese cultures, to Higan in Japan, a time of deep reflection and remembrance. Its roots can be traced back to neolithic and ancient pagan communities, where rituals would take place to usher in the ‘dark half’ of the year – a chance to focus on root energy, rest and balance, where feasts, foraging and creativity would take place. As with the the spring equinox, celebrations were held, and the smell of bonfires filled the air. It’s a part of nature that is rooted in humanity.
From the perspective of the natural world – a quietening, a slowing, and the death and hybernation of many species is a necessary process in the earth’s cycle. Without this, there would be no new life come spring and summer.
Take deciduous trees for example. Spring and summer is a time for producing new leaves, fruit and flowers, seed dispersal, and pollination (to ensure the survival of their species). When autumn and winter draw in, light is limited and temperatures drop. As a result, they begin to lose their leaves, fruit and flowers to preserve energy and conserve water.
For animals, autumn is about preparing for the winter ahead. Hedgehogs and squirrels will gather and store food, whilst increasing the amount they are eating to survive the colder months. Other mammals will grow thicker coats and many bird species will migrate to warmer climates.
For flora, fauna and humans alike, it’s a time to gather the abundance of spring and summer, and prepare for the period of rest that winter ushers in.
Losing sight of natural cycles
Today I recognise the importance of this cycle, but admittedly find it difficult to wholeheartedly embrace. Our society, particularly those in the Global North, is one often hell-bent on productivity and wealth.
I remember listening to a discussion on this ‘norm’ recently, and realising how bizarre it was that we work to the bone in the bitter months, only to rest and take holidays in the summer. In contrast, the natural world does the opposite. This notion applied on a human level is completely intuitive to our inner beings, but for so many companies and governments, to suggest rising with the sun and resting as it sets, or shortening working weeks over winter would be entirely out of the question – hustle culture has made it so.
Our fixation on improvement, on growth, on always pushing forward into the ‘new’ has led us to overwork, overproduce, overspend, and deregulate.
Rediscovering nature’s processes
Last winter, I fell into a deep burnout that took almost six months to recover from. I was exhausted, lost and scrambled. True to form, instead of taking the time to rest and retreat, I pushed myself to do more, to be more – and it all fell apart. I’d forgotten, like so many others, that I was part of a natural ecosystem, and that burnout was inevitable because I wasn’t giving myself the time and space to be still, in order to create, to feel alive and to bring new life.
This experience led me to begin tuning into nature’s rhythms.
Growing up in a country so clearly defined by the seasons, I had taken nature’s calendar for granted – but with the climate crisis noticeably impacting our weather systems, I began to realise how crucial the seasons were to nature and humanity as one.
Today, probably because I’m disturbed by what the world could look like without its natural processes, I try not to take these cycles for granted, and I look for the beauty in them. I’m fascinated by the seasons. By the laying patterns of a chicken. By the preserving blanket of winter snow. By the food that flourishes in the summer garden, and by the hearty roots that melt into a November stew.
Let me be clear – by noting that I’m beginning to tune into nature’s movements, and that autumn both symbolises and is a time to look within and rest – I’m not implying that it all stops. Whilst it may appear that almost all life freezes or dies as winter kicks in, there are many processes taking place in the winter ground that we’ll never see with our own eyes. For example, soil has given most of its energy and nutrition to the crops and plants that depend on it, and once these have been harvested, it’s a time to rejuvenate. A hardy frost layer of organic matter will protect microbes and soil-dwelling creatures through the colder months.
And from a societal point of view, we know things can’t completely grind to a halt – I’m under no illusion that we don’t need to work to survive, to make a living. But, if you’ve ever felt ‘unproductive’, ‘slow’, ‘sluggish’ or ‘lethargic’ on colder days, or questioned why you’re feeling like sleep is calling as the sun sets at 4pm on a dreary January afternoon – it’s because our primal selves are hard-wired to rest as the sun does.
What I’m instead suggesting, (or dreaming up rather) is perhaps there needs to be a time, a small, sweet ceremonial moment where we peek our heads out of our calm, burrowed chrysalis to feel the spring air on our cheeks again. Like the first stretch you take in the morning – the one that feels like you’ve never stretched before.
A bleary-eyed blink, eyes wide open to the new. What good would that bring to our mental wellbeing, our communities and connections? Body, mind and spirit grateful for the rest we allowed ourselves, the rest that’s part of us, woven into the fabric of who we are. Having an awareness of the seasons again, and moving with them.