Clocks Back, Leaves Down, Son Home
Is there a finer gift the year hands out than an extra hour in bed?
Tonight the clocks go back. At 2am on Sunday they'll slip back to 1am, ending British Summer Time, and I intend to spend every one of those sixty minutes under the duvet.
But it isn't the extra hour I'm thinking about most this weekend. Tomorrow my son comes home. He's been away four months, working abroad and travelling, and I've missed him in the way only a mum can. I've lamented the empty chair at the table, checked my phone too often, and jumped out of bed when a message pinged me awake from a time zone where it's the middle of the afternoon.
And tonight, with Samhain a week away and the Celtic Wheel of the Year about to tip us into the dark half, Storm Boelo is blowing in off the Atlantic, bearing its autumn gifts to the west of Scotland.
Whichever way the wind blows
I've checked the forecast many times today. The wind might hurry him home on its back. Or it might leave him stranded in a departure lounge, nursing an overpriced coffee and sending us updates in the wee hours. I've no say in it either way, which, for someone who likes a plan, is somewhat frustrating.
What is certain is that by morning the trees will look very different.
They've been glorious this year. The rowans turned first, then the birches went to old gold, and the big beeches in the graveyard have been glowing copper for a couple of weeks. The staghorn sumac and acer in my garden are putting on quite a show. A night of high winds and heavy rain will strip most of that away. By Sunday, bare branches will stand against a grey sky, and a soggy carpet of leaves will cover every pavement in the west.
I'll miss their colour and their chatter as I walk Izzy dog.
How the Celtic Wheel of the Year changed autumn for me
I've always loved the colour autumn brings us, but, for most of my life, I thought of the season as the gap between summer and Christmas. A season of socks, soup, and scarves. Then my Rites & Rituals Scotland training introduced me to the Celtic Wheel of the Year, and now I feel more comfortable with the season, understanding it better as a time to let go.
The Wheel of the Year marks the changing seasons as a circle rather than a straight line, with eight festivals (known as Sabbats, the pagan name for these seasonal celebrations) spaced around it like the hours on a clock face. Four are quarter points, falling on the solstices and equinoxes: the longest and shortest days of the year, and the two days when day and night are equal. The other four are cross-quarter points, sitting roughly halfway between, and they're often known as fire festivals. Drawing on ancient Celtic traditions and other seasonal customs, the Wheel celebrates the turning seasons, the cycles of life, death and rebirth, and our connection to the natural world.
The three autumn points on the Wheel
Autumn on the Wheel of the Year moves from abundance, through reflection, towards acceptance, and it's marked by three festivals.
Lughnasadh, at the start of August, lets us reap what we've sown and give thanks for what we've received. During Mabon, the autumn equinox in late September, we find balance, take stock and begin to release what we no longer need. Samhain (say it sow-in, to rhyme with cow) arrives next week, at the end of October, bringing acceptance of one cycle's end and giving us the chance to honour what has passed and make space for the unknown.
This progression feels instinctive and natural. We experience it not only in the changing seasons but also in our own lives: working towards something, recognising what matters, and eventually learning to let go. And for me, that's the heart of the Wheel of the Year. It reminds us that we aren't separate from nature. We, too, experience seasons of growth, fulfilment, change, loss and renewal.
What the trees already know
A tree doesn't cling to its leaves out of sentiment. It lets them go to conserve its energy through the winter. We should all be more 'tree,' adopting their wisdom and letting go of something or someone so new growth can come in time. So when tonight's storm rattles the windows and takes the last of the copper off those graveyard beeches, I'll try to remember that the trees aren't losing anything they won't grow back. They're clearing the way for what’s to come in the spring.
The harvest that comes home
But autumn isn't only about letting go. It's about gathering in.
My son went away in the summer, and he's coming home at the turn of the year. He'll bring stories I haven't heard yet, a few habits and new phrases I won't recognise, and a rucksack of laundry with my name on it. Four months far from home is long enough for anyone to change a wee bit, and I'm looking forward to meeting whoever's walked through the door.
That's my harvest this year. Not grain or apples, but my boy at the dining table, home for however long he decides to stay.
Somewhere between mother and crone
Some modern pagan traditions link autumn with the shift from the mother to the crone, the wise woman who's come fully into herself: a woman who knows her own mind, speaks her truth, and has stopped asking permission. At 55, I can identify with that.
And this weekend I'm both. Tonight I'm the mum at the window, watching the weather and fretting about flights. And I'm also a woman who has spent this year stepping into work that feels like it was waiting for me. Mother and wise woman, sharing the one pair of slippers.
Spend your extra hour well
If you'd like to mark the turning of the year yourself, it needn't be grand. Once the storm's passed, go outside and pick up a fallen leaf. Hold it for a moment and think about something you're ready to put down before winter: a worry, a habit, a grudge you've carried long enough. Then lay the leaf back on the ground and walk away.
That's a simple ritual, and it's what Samhain asks of us: give thanks, remember who you've lost, release what's done, and make room for what's coming.
And if you'd rather spend your extra hour in bed? You'll get no argument from me.
The wind can do what it likes tonight. The leaves will come down, the clocks will go back, and tomorrow my son comes home.
That's a harvest worth staying up for. Right after my lie-in.