Autumn Is My New Year

While New Year’s Eve is the traditional time for making resolutions, autumn is my new year.  Autumn’s entry into the darkness of winter beckons me to soul-search and reset my compass for the coming year.  This call is reinforced by having a fall birthday–one I proudly share with Jimmy Carter.

This year I decided to do more than journal about my good intentions for the coming year.  I’ve invited a few friends to my home to join me in a ritual* to share our fall resolutions. Having witnesses to my intentions, offers incentive to stick to them. It’s tempting to fudge on my resolutions if no one knows about them, but friends will check-in and keep me honest. I will reciprocate in kind.

Friends gathering for an at-home ritual, similar to what I envision creating

I’ll create an altar on my coffee table, replacing the pile of magazine and books with my grandmother’s paisley shawl, fresh flowers, a votive candle, and my Kuan Yin statue. (Kuan Yin is the Chinese goddess of compassion.)  Ritual companions will be asked to bring sacred objects for the altar. It should be something that holds deep personal meaning:  a photograph of a loved one, or a precious souvenir, like a stone from a beach in Crete.

My treasured Kuan Yin statue

I’ll open our ritual by reading a sacred passage, similar to this one by Joyce Rupp, a Catholic writer and poet:

I gratefully acknowledge how darkness has become less of an enemy for me and more of a place of silent nurturance, where the slow, steady gestation needed for my soul’s growth can occur.

I’ve borrowed from the Chinese tradition where autumn is associated with sadness represented by the dying summer flowers and the fading light. In this tradition one is called to honor what one has lost. I will be mourning the loss of a dear friend.

Once we mourn what we have lost, we can allow our hearts to open to a new path.  In the life cycle when something dies, something else is born. 

The Chinese tradition calls for birthing new dreams during autumn.

I will extend the invitation to share our dreams.  It might be a book or art project that needs dusting off, a social concern that moves us to get involved or family connections we wish to deepen.

I might share my desire to dust-off a play I wrote during Covid.  One friend is contemplating a move to country living, which she might share.  Another friend might express her longing to return to watercolors, which she gave up decades ago when she became a mother.  Since we all long to live in a harmonious world, we might dream about ways to get involved with groups addressing global warming or world peace.

Buddhist teacher Sharon Saltzberg encourages us to direct some of the energy from what we’ve let go of by giving to others, entering the state of generosity.

I feel honored by the young women who seek my advice, allowing me to share what life has taught me. I do my best to comfort my teenage grands as they navigate a planet on life-support. Sometimes extending generosity is simply smiling at the despondent stranger in the check-out line.

In our circle I will extend generosity by asking that we remind one another of our strengths.

I’ll close the circle on an challenging note, like reading a moving passage from Mary Oliver:  Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

 Once the circle is closed it’s time to party.  I’ll play joyful music, like the Uppity Blues Women, pass around prosecco or cider, and slices of birthday cake, not just for my birthday but for the new start we have all birthed.  I can’t wait . . .

* Readers are invited to copy or adapt my ritual.