The harvest is upon us. Cottonwoods and maples have well begun their turnings and the mountainside is awash in gold. The light has changed and the first of the autumnal breezes have come to caress our brows.
What do you celebrate at this mighty threshold?
Toes hanging over the near edge of the dark time, where the sun hangs low and dreamtime claims zenith: Welcome to the Liminal.
This is the time of year where we honor all the fruits of the harvest and begin looking death in the face. The sap will retreat, the herbaceous plants will die back...