Illustration © Kaitlynn Copithorne
Like many people, I have always held a deep reverence for the seasons. Not just the seasons themselves, but the way in which they bleed into one another, how light and dark ebbs and flows during one full turn around the sun. As a child during autumn, I would be filled with near-euphoric delight as the days grew shorter, coaxing the leaves to finally give up their secrets; the blushing pinks, yellows and oranges they’ve kept hidden all year long. Bare winter branches never cease to amaze me when, after a period of dormancy so like death, their branches are studded with buds that burst into bloom, showing us that hope and life can flourish even after such a harsh and barren period. This lesson came back to me as an adult, helping to guide me out of my darkest times, dissipating my anxiety.
Living with anxiety is sadly something that many people can relate to, now more than ever. For me, it has a sidekick: Panic. At its worst, anxiety becomes a sticky, heavy thing that takes up residence in the base of my stomach, leaving no room for food. It tarnishes every thought with its sticky little fingers, stealing joy so that I only see threat. It wakes me at 4am pounding its Morse code through my heartbeat. It resonates in my throat, in my ear drums.
Panic tricks your body into thinking there is threat looming where there is none, and it leaves me with a lingering sense of detachment. For me, healing came in finding ways to reconnect with myself and my environment in order to regain a sense of security, and nothing is more reassuring than the persistence of the seasons. Pablo Neruda said that “[you] can cut all the flowers, but you cannot keep spring from coming.” I discovered immense comfort and relief by observing the Neo-Pagan Wheel of the Year. I focussed mindfully on the equinoxes and solstices, points indicating the harvest, when animals would be born and when they should be brought in to slaughter. In doing so I was able to reconnect with the seasons. These moments of pause, celebration and reflection encouraged me to stop resisting my challenging feelings and delve deeper in order to explore the healing lesson that each season has to offer.
My anxiety had always been worse in the winter, and for a long time, this was something I simply accepted. Winter was a season that I wished away. Samhain, or Halloween, marks the final harvest, and from then on, unpicked fruits rot on the branch or on the ground beneath it. The black hooded geese that flew over my back garden were the first portents of winter, and I would hear their broken trumpeted call announcing the darkness to come. From then on, it would seep into the day like ink and into me until I became saturated with it, feeling a heaviness that made it impossible to move at times.
It wasn’t until I read a novel set in the winter, the snow in the book mirroring that falling outside my window, that I felt truly connected with the season. I realised how much of what I felt was to do with resisting the natural rhythm of that time of year. Yule time is when plants and animals conserve their energy and turn inwards. It is a time of reflection and introspection. Light and dark are not opposing forces as we frequently see them presented (how often do we see darkness referred to as something that should be ‘fought’, ‘banished’ or ‘overcome’ by light?).
Darkness brings connotations of malevolence, but it can also be nurturing and replenishing. It is the soil that holds bulbs and seeds deep within its belly until they are ready to split come spring. It is the depth that we sink into each night when we close our eyes. Darkness is not the opposition of light. The seasons work in a perfectly balanced cycle, therefore light and dark are complementary, each with its own purpose. Through this, I gave myself permission to let go of the expectation that I should be rid of my darker emotions, and as a result, made room for them.
So many of us are turning to creativity and nature during lockdown as a tonic to these febrile times. Even the sourdough craze fits with this notion of cycles and healing; it involves a yeast that needs feeding over a number of days, bread that sits proving for hours. There is reassurance in the fact that within those seemingly passive intervals, growth and life are taking place.
I now have rituals that I practise each solstice. My favourite entails taking a long walk, whatever the weather, in nearby woods, navigating thick tree roots emerging out of mud made slick with London clay, spotting a sparrow hawk swoop into the canopy or a heron glide overhead, thin legs trailing like the ribbon of a kite. I pick up treasures on my way; a pine cone, a feather, a broken branch covered in blossoms, and I return home feeling full. I think of Sylvia Plath’s words in The Bell Jar, “I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, ‘This is what it is to be happy.’”
There is a scientific reason behind why we tend to feel better after a long walk, particularly when that involves a natural setting. Emma Mitchell extols the benefits that nature can have on mental health in her book The Wild Remedy where she discusses the scientific aspects of oils and compounds (phtyocides) produced by many plants to protect against infections and viruses, studies of which “have shown that the inhalation of phytocides triggers the same effects on our immune system, endocrine system, circulatory system and nervous system.”
Being in London, it can be difficult to find ways to be in sync with nature’s rhythm. But it’s not impossible. There is a reason why so many of us are turning to nature for comfort and healing when so much can feel bleak and uncertain. At times, it feels like we are all living within the pages of a pastoral novel with pictures shared online of skylines, woodsy walks and all sorts of botany and wildlife, all the while nature continues to operate entirely indifferent to the joys and suffering of humanity.
The next solstice is probably the most well-known: Midsummer, or Litha. The sun is at its peak, making this the longest day of the year, and from there on, the nights will gradually steep into the day as the Oak King, who brings light, lengthening our days, relinquishes control to the Holly King, bringing darkness. It is a time to celebrate warmth and light. The young animals born in spring have grown and replenish the ecosystem, outdoors is verdant and fecund with fruits and vegetables ripening.
The summer solstice is associated with the goddess Epona, matron of horses. She is the mother goddess of the fruits of the fields and orchards, and represents abundance. At a time when we feel lack due to the constraints we currently live within, this time of plenty encourages me to celebrate the immaterial things I do have. On Midsummer, I will be thinking about the abundance of time I have gained with my husband and children that I would otherwise not have, and how much I appreciate the cacophony of bird song each morning that I swear is louder now than I have ever known it to be. I will be thankful for my wild little garden where I can sit amongst the bees and chattering starlings. I will be thankful for the abundance of ways we are able to stay connected.