Dramatists going back to Shakespeare have made good use of the “nature as mirror” device for the simple reason that it works. Having a mad King Lear rage against a clear sky just wouldn’t pack the same punch. Despite our technologies and man-made materials, we exist as a part of the natural world, even if our role has shifted from caretaker to consumer.
Witches everywhere know that “as above, so below; as within so without.” This fundamental principle underscores much of our practice. We draw power from parallels. Like to like.
During these COVID times, much of my time “without” has been spent in the garden. It continues to be a source of energy, inspiration, wisdom, and nourishment. These have been challenging times for both me and my garden. Here in this corner of Central Illinois, our spring and summer have seen golf-ball sized hail, dangerously high winds, and shifts from dry heat to flooding the likes of which has given us whiplash. This dramatic weather seems just about right for the times, given the still rampant pandemic and the laundry list of socio-economic ills it has made plain to most. In my garden, as in my state, there has been more death. More destruction. More fragility. And more vulnerability. Everyone is just trying to survive. The weeds, the rabbits, the new hopefuls and me. But some days that can seem like an especially tall order.
In more stable years, the frenzy of summer is followed by the gradual slowing down as trees and humans alike prepare for the bittersweet brilliance of autumn and the quiet darkness of winter. But when faced with extraordinary stressors, a tree can decide to “early autumn,” voluntarily hastening the inevitable shutting down in order to conserve what little energy remains.
This past week I discovered that several of my trees and bushes had chosen this path. And I can’t say that I blame them. As I take a hard look “within” I see evidence of my own “early autumning.” Truth be told, I am an inherent introvert. An often-socially anxious only child with lots of solo interests and hobbies. I have lived much of my life as the embodiment of every “been social distancing since before it was cool“ cross-stitch pattern and meme. But thanks to a series of events which stemmed from the not so simple act of leaving a toxic workplace, I found myself late-blooming into something approaching a “people person.” It wasn’t easy. It was exhausting. But like all challenging and important work it was worth it. The new life that I had built over the last four years was filled with people: clients, artists, writers, performers, yogis, and friends that saw me and fueled me in ways I couldn’t have foreseen. Energetically I was often stretched thin, but I had never felt more at home, more my best self.
And then the virus came, and like many others in the fitness/wellness/arts/retail sectors (yes I wore a lot of hats at the time), it all went away: income, stability, routines, purpose, and, for a while, motivation. And though I had been mentally prepared for the financial loss, the loss of four-plus years of behavioral and emotional progress came as a shock. Some days feel like that growth was nothing but a dream, and my internal landscape matches the state of my garden. I am tired and beaten down. Hopeful, and then afraid that I will only be disappointed. I am early-autumning. I am drawing inward. I am rationing my energy because I don’t know what lies ahead. Our very foundations have shifted. They have been torn up and turned upside down. I hope that when we reach the other side of this, this destruction will have been the beginning of something better. Until then, you may not see much of me other than on the page or the screen. I am quieter and listening more than talking. But I am still here.
Photo by Debra Domal