by Kiva Rose
http://animacenter.org

Walking home through the cool air and dry grass yesterday, I noticed that the spiny brown seed pods of the wild licorice had fallen and the leaves were beginning to wither and crisp, as it drew its energy from its extremities and down into their long, coiling roots as the Fall cold sets in. I knelt down by them and touched their speckled stalks, allowing myself to become more aware of the shortening days and the wonder of life still growing vital and vigorous beneath the insulating ground. I dug my fingers into the sand until I exposed the soft brown maze of its roots, carefully harvesting half a dozen foot length sections before covering them again with their earthen blanket and continuing home.

For me, the first root harvest each year physically signifies the shift into the cooler, darker time of the year. While the seasons used to slip past me almost before I could notice, now our wild foods and local medicines inform me in the most tangible ways of each precious transition. The slow turn of the seasonal wheel teaches first and foremost awareness — of the natural world, of relationships and our own bodily cycles.

Much of this awareness has to do with the food we consume, the clothes we wear, the medicines we use and the activities we engage in. These concrete, almost mundane elements are the stuff of life: the tart red raspberries of Summer, the soft wool wraps of Winter, the spicy root brews of Autumn and the enlivened dance of Spring. It is in these simple acts and objects we find connection and meaning. The ritual of gathering the first bitter greens of the growing season and of plucking the last flowers of the warm time, has brought me into an ever more intimate relationship with the land I live on. I know, almost to the week, when certain flowers or particulars trees will be ready to harvest. Even without a calendar, my partner Loba and I can tell by the slant of sun and the chill in the air just when we it’s time to travel up to the mountains for the blackberries and yarrow. As the first one of us here at Animá Center to come home to the Canyon, Wolf remembers each season of every year of the last 30 here in this one place. He can tell us of the progression of floods, of the changing landscape, of the newly arrived birds and flowers and the many different paths the river has taken through all the rainy seasons.

Although our daughter Rhiannon is only eight, she too understands her life by the natural progression of the year. She grins gleefully when the acorns begin to fatten in August, and twirls in delight at the first snow. Likewise, she associates these changes with certain foods, clothes, medicines and ways of moving through the landscape. When I returned yesterday with a bag full of fresh elderberries, she paused and mused. “Medicine for Winter,” she said, watching me with excitement this morning when I drenched the purple berries with honey and brandy, then putting them into the pantry in preparation for the annual onslaught of colds, flu and other immune system challenges. There’s a certain special beauty to this experience of the earth as a dynamic, living organism, and of ourselves as integral pieces of that animate whole. When we take the time to actively participate and immerse ourselves in the movement and rhythm of the world, we notice more and more the intertwined nature of everything and how we fit into that greater whole. In the spirals within spirals of time and its turning, we grow wilder and ever closer to home.

Here in the mountains of the Southwest, the commonly accepted seasons are different than they are in, say, northern New England. Our Spring comes early – in mid-March – and is followed by a long summer which is divided up into the very dry fire season and the hopefully very wet monsoon season, then comes harvest season, the cold season’s rains and finally the bone chill of deep Winter. Depending on the decade, these categories can shift and blur. In our wild canyon home we have even more micro seasons, formed around special yearly events like the Spring return of the phoebes and blooming of soft white Yucca flowers..

I mark the return of spring by the first flowering candytuft and by the way the light shifts when the sun rises over the canyon wall, and the arrival of fire season by the explosion of beebalm flowers opening in every canyon nook and cranny. Midsummer is heralded by the blooming of the first wild roses and elder flowers, and the monsoons move in just as the saskatoons are ripening. Harvest season begins with the gooseberries turning black-purple and juicy and later on the aromatic little native herbs affectionately called “sunset plants” turn every shade of pink, purple and green. The last golden leaf to fall from the giant arms of the Cottonwoods marks the onset of winter and the time to turn inwards, to sort the harvest and to settle in front of the fire for the long evenings of the cold season.

Instead of being subject to the guidelines of “normal” seasons, we can each take note of the weather and happenings in our unique bioregion. We can pay special attention to the moment of transition between seasons and the shifts in weather, flora and fauna throughout the year. We may mark our calendar when we notice the first Spring flower, the arrival of migrating butterflies or the first snow.

These experiences are deeply personal and encourage – even require – us to become increasingly more intimate with our surroundings and selves. Only through repeated observation and experience can we anticipate what that first flower will most likely appear one year to the next, or recognize the change in the wind that signals the beginning of a seasonal refiguring. Just as we may know our true love or heart’s home at first glance, it is only through years of aware walking, working and living together that we get to know every wrinkle and scar, and each variation on a smile.

While most people celebrate Spring as designated by the equinox, I have a habit of basing our festivities around locally occurring events. For the last few years, we have celebrated the return of the growing season when the yuccas bloom. They are by no means the first flower to open in the Spring, but they are an accurate marker of the full greening of the canyon. They’re also tasty and a prime source of food and medicine, making them an important plant to honor.

We gather baskets and bowls full of its flowers and bring them back to the cabin. Some are immediately transformed into an integral part of the special feast and others are strung on a cotton thread, to be hung for decoration and drying from the rafters. Next, we prepare a sumptuous and colorful meal, full of the vitality and growth of Spring. Our festival is simple, made up mostly of feasting and a little dancing, along with ample time to observe and appreciate the beautiful green emerging from every crevice and cranny. We toast the animals, the plants and the canyon with raised glasses, then settle in to watch the sun turn golden and purple as it slips over the canyon wall.

Yearly holidays and community festivals are also best when planned around a local seasonal event such as morel season, apple harvest or corn planting. For those of us not living in a wild or rural area, we can still take notice of the street-side cherry blossoms and readiness of ripe community garden tomatoes, and even celebrate with our neighbors and family with special meals and gathering parties.

When we gather many of our foods from the wild, from our garden or even the local farmer’s market, we generally become better attuned to the land we live on, and it informs our bodies of seasonal changes. Instead of using cooling tropical fruits to prepare November breakfasts, our bodies and spirits might benefit more from a steaming bowl of oats with chunks of locally grown dried apples with a dollop of raw wildflower honey. Even changes as simple as drinking a lemon balm tea fresh from the garden in the warm months rather than green tea or coffee, can significantly reconnect us to the dynamic dance of life and land. These simple acts can serve as celebrations in and of themselves, providing us with daily rituals to honor the local green beings, our own health and the connections between all things. All acts of participation can be conscious and joyful, and a daily means for more deeply engaging.

There are certain blessings and challenges that come with every part of the wheel, affecting our food, the clothes we wear, how we travel, our emotions and our overall health. When we attune ourselves to notice and adapt accordingly, the journey through the spiral of the year can be made even more joyful, meaningful and productive. Our ancestors spent a great deal of time preparing for each coming season, whether weaving sandals and sorting seeds in late Winter for the coming Spring or harvesting and preparing remedies in Autumn for the coming Winter months.

Likewise, we can choose to mindfully take into account each coming shift in weather and energy. Every evening Loba and I stand in the kitchen gazing up at the shelves of shiny glass jars filled with colorful and vibrant flowers, leaves and roots. We each pick an individual blend of herbs to place in our quart mason jars for the next day’s nourishing infusion. It would be more convenient to make a blend and use the same mixture every night, but we find that we prefer the freedom to choose each healing element on a daily basis. One busy week I might add more wild Chamomile and oatstraw for stress support, and the next Loba will toss a few pinches of desert tea in with her more standard nettles and red clover to help prepare for the onset of seasonal allergies. In this way we assist our bodies in adapting to the coming changes as well as adjusting mentally and emotionally as we act out of our connection.

Each season we not only partake in the current bounty but also prepare for the next. Gathering and drying bitter root medicines, brewing sweet wines made of spring flowers or simmering rich berry and bark syrups to be stored in thick glass on a cool pantry shelf, awaiting need or

As I let my fingers sift through a jar of last summer’s fragrant rose petals I feel myself connected to the mothers of generations past... to the women who, thousands of years ago, gathered and prepared these same medicines in this very place! Making remedies for child and village, infusing the richness of each precious moment into food, medicine and activity, bringing us full circle to the eternal now.

It’s no coincidence that the fresh promise of May is the most popular month for weddings, or that the sunless days of winter often bring up reasons for depression or sadness in many. The moon spins from dark to light, as our own bodies surge with ovulation and then flow with the bleeding time. Whether we are aware of it or not, we are connected at the very roots to the land and seasons, to cycles and shifts of the planet we live on. The more we can take notice of and foster this connection, the more helpful and beautiful the process can be. Likewise, the more we can pay attention to the cycles of our bodies, the more we will learn and enjoy. Rather than view menopause as some kind of personal hell brought on by “estrogen failure” we can find the liberation and power of coming into our croning years. And instead of experiencing each menstrual period as a curse, we can let ourselves feel the ancient rhythm of body and moon, blood and water as emotions, as body and tides flowing of and through us.

Such rites of passage are not just spiritual or metaphorical, they are rooted in the very physical reality of seed and leaf, fruit and flower. Our bodies are miraculous microcosms that reflect the entirety of the evolutionary and creative process of life. Throughout history, tribal women have understood and celebrated the specialness of the female cycle, and it is only in recent history that we have forgotten the wonders of womanhood and come to hate our bodies. Honoring these rites of passage and transformation are more than just noting the changes and cycles, it is a way of both remembering our primal connections to the land and learning to love ourselves again. How we choose to do this is highly individual, and while one woman may find companionship in sharing this with a group of women, another may find it so personal and intimate that she prefers to be only with her self or a few chosen loved ones.

Moving through the wheel of the year, we circle and dance back to ourselves, allowing every moon, season and event to be something both amazingly special and ultimately familiar. These small celebrations and annual observances are in fact incredibly vital to our ecstatic experience as fulfilled women. They provide us both with a sense of cyclical continuity and reinforce the importance of experiencing the intense present moment. They give us roots and context, a place to grow from, reasons to act, and memories to treasure. The world seen through local seasons – through the always turning wheel – is one of ongoing delights of our ever deepening intimacy with the earth, each other and ourselves.

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