1st September
Elusive sunshine welcomed September, and with it came a well-disguised chill and the early signs of autumn. I have fondness for Autumn, as the season of the great collapse, when organic matter embarks on its journey back to the earth. It gives me my own sense of renewal and an opportunity to release those heavy thoughts. But not before a grand feast of seeds and berries of course. We cannot renew ourselves on an empty stomach, after all.
With the start of the great collapse, I noticed the greens of summer had gracefully surrendered to a diverse and warm palette of oranges and pinks, mirroring the sunsets and rises of the day. The richness of these colours were not coming from flower petals, but from the chlorophyll, rusted and tired and ready for the next great adventure. Energy put to the seeds, excitedly vibrating in their mother’s arms eager to get going and explore.
The thistles were still holding their down seeds tightly. “Not yet”. But soon they will be dancing through the sky, catching the low sun.
3rd September
Seeking with the Zenit 35mm, loaded with Kentmere Pan. Developed in Flic Film’s Black, White & Green eco developer.
The hedgerow at home is now weighted with bird cherry and rosehips. The new shoots of summer are having their final moment in the sun before the inevitable, and the rowans in the forest continue with their spectacular display.
The canopy is glowing, and the trees will soon humbly lay down their leaves to share the light through the darker months. Exploring Anagach woods (I still “explore” despite the familiarity), I tread gently past the trees I know, and seek out the ones I’m yet to meet. The quiet is glorious.
Everything feels softer today, brief moments of reflection and fluttering rowan leaves in the light. It’s enough to take the weight of the world away, for a brief moment.
13th September
It’s quiet all around, there is a pause in the busy-ness of harvest. The bees cannot fly and the chill numbs fingers seeking. The rowans are spectacular this year. I think about making rowan berry jelly. I don’t really like it. Best left for the birds anyway.
The wind is the tale teller of this season. In these moments I still myself to watch its work, its pattern. The trees often appear dancing, to me. I like them for that. I see their interconnectedness and their spirit. I think of something I saw, then read about, sparked by curiosity. And, just like that, the wind means more than I thought, perhaps.
20th September
Warm, sun-glowing days abound, and the mist holds on in the strath to mid-morning. I go in search of the beams breaking in, striking gold through the liquid atmosphere, but am met with continued mist and soft diffused light. Down at the bog, the “messy” bits of nature are ever-intriguing. The geese have started flying.
Scrappy, half sunken dead wood, sludgy mud, and the dark mystery of depth and the belly of the Earth. The sphagnum off-path underfoot gently resists me as I delicately move myself around to alter my view (an important practice for me). I apologise to it, and hop semi-nimbly to dryer ground.
I notice there are pine needles floating in the water again, has it really been a year since pine needle soup season? A big melty pot of fertile primordial water, decaying chlorophyll and insect husks. This is the nourishment for the season.
Further along, the thought of the “pretty autumn views”, the golden lochs and placid waters, come to me. This isn’t a place for that, but it holds so much more interest. Next to the hangman’s tree, the dark earth holds the moments of final breath of numerous souls. I wonder about them. Did they like the autumn too? Were these waters the last thing they saw? Did they see themselves as sacrificial to the Earth and all she grows? Did it help?
Mirrored in the bog are the pines that stand seemingly eternally, roots sunken. They could be standing in judgement or as a comfort – I am unsure. Any uneasiness I feel is outweighed by an overwhelming sense of beauty and importance in this place. Moisture from the mist drops into the water, as if the trees themselves are crying.
I quietly move on, and the thoughts continue to dance around. Along my familiar path, I see a twisted young rowan, bending to the light. It’s not so noticeable unless you are looking, and I step down to alter my view and see its form. It is dancing, I decide.
Shortly after, another rowan gloriously proud, bent and bent again, contrary in its decision making, or beautifully precise (I’m not sure which). Not happy with where its seed landed, it made for a different path. I like it even more for that.
Hints of autumn continue to congregate. Dewed spider webs in the heather, now with faded pink flowers, and a shift in hue in the leaves. Only the start, but clear momentum gathering.
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