An Outro to Fall: A Counter-Cultural Exploration
I love to eat. This time of year brings up a lot for me on the feelings and holiday front, but the one thing I love to celebrate are the hearty foods of fall and winter: the spices, the squashes, the stews. I love how the hot and cozy cuisines of fall and winter feel like a warm embrace from a loved one. I love the seasonal nature of eating, that as the seasons change, so do the foods I eat. It keeps me connected to the world, more present to the length of each day, the chill in the air, and what my body most needs.
When I was a teacher, I approached my pedagogy in the same ways I approached my eating habits: seasonally. The energy an abundance of a fall harvest matches the energy of early-year classroom routines and fall rituals. The hunker-down nature of winter invites more slowness into our routines, more space and time for reflection. The blooms of spring are a wonderful time for bigger projects, for showcasing learning and growth. I’m trying to approach my work now in the same seasonal way I used to approach teaching. It’s time to hunker, reflect, and let the leaves of the past year fall so new buds can form.
Abscission
In her book Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times, author Katherine May writes about the process trees undergo when they lose their leaves, a process called abscission:
It occurs on the cusp between autumn and winter, as part of an arc of growth, maturity, and renewal. In spring and summer, leaf cells are full of chlorophyll, a bright green substance that absorbs sunlight, fueling the process that converts carbon dioxide and water into starch and sugar that allow the tree to grow. But at the end of the summer, as the days grow shorter and the temperature falls, deciduous trees stop making food. In the absence of sunlight, it becomes too costly to maintain the machinery of growth. The chlorophyll begins to break down, revealing other colors that were always present in the leaf, but which were masked by the abundance of green pigment: oranges and yellows…
But while this is happening, a layer of cells is weakening between the stem and the branch: this is called the abscission zone….Even as the leaves are falling, the buds of next year’s crop are already in place, waiting to erupt again in the spring.
Most trees produce their buds in high summer, and the autumn leaf fall reveals them, neat and expectant, protected from the cold by thick scales. We rarely notice them because we think we’re seeing the skeleton of a tree, a dead thing until the sun returns. But look closely, and every single tree is in bud…The tree is waiting. It has everything ready…It is far from dead. It is in fact the life and soul of the wood. It’s just getting on with it quietly.
This time of year in means different things to different people. For people who live in settler colonial places, it can mean mad dashes to consume, to gather, to have full calendars, be raucous and merry. Rather than paying attention to the abscission happening within us—the change of seasons, the slowing down, the getting on with things quietly—we often do the opposite. It’s no wonder this time of year is stressful, that so many are depressed and burnt out. We are countering a seasonal process.
It is too costly to maintain the same machinery of growth the summer and early fall bring. What would it look like to tend to our internal abscission, to shed the layers of our prior seasons and nurture the buds we have in bloom? What would it look like to do so quietly, slowly, to approach our work more seasonally?
Counter-Cultural Rituals for a Change of Season
Making a radical shift to seasonal living (or pedagogy) may feel like a stretch when we are deep into the holiday season, when the pace is quick and big things are happening. But if this idea intrigues you—tending to your more seasonal self quietly—consider the following shifts in your leadership, teaching, coaching, or daily living. Do these solo or with your community:
Write a reflection about the things you’re letting go of from the fall and the buds of new growth you’re nurturing for the spring. Do this daily, weekly, or set aside a longer stretch of time for deeper reflection.
Begin or end your classes/coaching sessions/meetings with some time for quiet reflection, inviting people to consider what they are letting go of or buds they are nurturing.
Wake up 10-15 minutes later and/or go to sleep 10-15 minutes earlier to invite more rest into each day.
Pay attention to sunrises or sunsets each day between now and the end of December—notice the sky get lighter or darker to honor the shorter days and longer evenings. As the sky gets darker, identify something you’re letting go of from the day.
If you exercise, take your pace down a few ticks, or do each movement more slowly.
Take a mindful moment 2 to 3 times a day to pause, take a breath, check in with how you’re doing, and proceed more slowly than you normally would.
Chew your food or sip your beverages more slowly, striving to savor the flavors more fully.
Whatever else allows you to slow down and honor the change of seasons.
You might notice some emotions come up for you—perhaps more relief or gratitude, perhaps a little more sadness. Allow those feelings to be there, and notice them pass like leaves falling from the trees. Honor your emotions as much as you honor these seasonal rituals.
An Outro to Fall
In the workshops I lead, I do what I call “intros” and “outros”—easing people in and out of the learning experience, ritualizing the time we have together, and ushering participants back into their regularly scheduled lives with intention and care. I’m applying that ethos to how I am ending this fall: being more intentional about my rituals, reflecting on the growth I’ve made and what I’m letting to—nurturing the buds in bloom for the season ahead. Currently, I’m taking the final slow sips of my morning coffee as I finish this newsletter, savoring the flavors of chocolate and cinnamon.
What will your outro to fall look like?
