A Certain Slant of Light

Sunrise 6:35: September 4, 2013. Ribbons of lilac and salmon are painted across the horizon and undulating in the misted river this morning. At my feet, an echo of these colours in the blooming clover and full faced asters. The blooms of autumn are in full swing. The annuals in the window boxes and hanging baskets shy away and fade from this full-throated autumn song.

Somehow the spectrum of deep colour holds all the days of sun and growing and activity. Not the buttery pastels of spring, rather the rich jewel tones of many moons, many rains, many winds, many sunsets. This is an overture to the death song. The geese have begun to tune their instruments and tone their notes across the painted morning skies. The mist rises with evidence of the Old Ones. The winds are cold and brisk in the pre dawn. The sun rises over the ridge with assertive purpose. Brilliant!

This popped up on my facebook memories today. Ten years ago I penned this piece. I remember that I was doing a Traditional Ceremony called the Sun Ceremony. It is a ceremony whereby the initiate rises with the sun and stays awake as long as the sun is in the sky. No sleeping in. No napping. Bearing witness to Mishomis—Grandfather Sun for as long as he is pouring his light and his love onto his beloved, Nokomis—Grandmother Earth.

The ceremony is meant to recalibrate the initiate’s relationship with creation. For a cycle of 365 consecutive days, the practice, the discipline, the ritual promises one will become a Sun Warrior. It is a ceremony to grow consciousness. It took me 5 years to complete the continuous cycle.

This facebook memory remembers what I had almost forgotten. To slow down. To notice. To appreciate. When I was a little girl I had a notebook that I called My Book of Noticings. It was a place where I would record my curiosities. Bumblebees are fuzzy. Daddy and Santa Claus have the same penmanship. The grass weeps just before dawn.

One thing I notice at this time of year, on what Francis Weller calls the “wild edge of sorrow,” is that nature teaches us how to let go. She sings her Death Song with all the colour and brilliance and abundance of creation. She caresses us with Emily Dickinson’s “certain slant of light.”

When it comes, the Landscape listens—
Shadows—hold their breath—When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death—

This is the time of year for noticing. The russet apples and golden pears let go and tumble luscious and ripe to the ground. The gardens surrender their bounty and the kitchen air becomes steamy with the fragrance and industry of canning. The hummingbirds seemingly dart frantically around the nectar feeders. The geese offer a benediction in arching patterns in the high air. The gathering Monarchs preemptively turn the meadow grasses orange. Then, suddenly, green trees become gold, then red, then russet, then copper. The “certain slant of light” fades earlier each evening. The starry vault of night grows increasingly cool.

Something of mystery itself whispers from the edges.

So begins the overture. Life labours in the Dying to deliver the Future in seed and promise. Join in the chorus of the Death Song. Synesthesia. Here. Now. This. Everything.