Autumn, endings and making space for what’s growing

Autumn is probably one of my favourite times of year. I love the smells, the colours, the textures, the darker evenings, candles being lit again and that whole cosy feeling that comes with the season.

Not so much the giant spiders, though. They can absolutely go. You can’t have everything.

This year, I’ve been thinking about autumn a little differently.

I’ve been reading and learning a lot about grief as part of my counselling training, while also exploring releasing, endings and transition through my shamanic work. And it’s made me think about how much we grieve that isn’t necessarily about death.

Of course, the grief of losing someone we love is very different, and I would never want to minimise that. But grief can come with all sorts of endings.

We can grieve relationships. Friendships. Jobs. Plans that didn’t happen. Ideas about how we thought our lives would look. Beliefs we once held. Even old versions of ourselves.

And letting go isn’t always tidy or beautiful.

Sometimes it’s angry. Sometimes it’s sad. Sometimes it’s messy and snotty and involves a really good cry. Sometimes we don’t even realise we’re grieving because we haven’t quite admitted to ourselves that something is ending.

There can be denial. It’s fine. Nothing needs to change.

There can be anger. Why does this have to change?

And sometimes there’s bargaining.

I think bargaining can look like desperately trying to find a way to keep everything. Maybe if I organise myself better. Maybe if I work a bit harder. Maybe if I change this one thing. Maybe I can somehow fit everything in and nothing has to go.

I’ve definitely done that.

But I’m starting to realise that sometimes the problem isn’t that I haven’t tried hard enough to make everything fit.

It’s that my life has grown and shifted.

New things are already growing and taking up space.

And perhaps that’s where some of the grief comes in. We can be in denial that something is ending. We can be angry about it. We can feel really sad about it. We can bargain and try to find a way of keeping everything exactly as it was.

And eventually, hopefully, there can be some acceptance.

Not necessarily being happy about it. Just accepting that something has changed.

I think nature is particularly good at reminding us of this at this time of year.

Only a few weeks ago, after such a hot summer, the grass was scorched and yellow and everything looked dry and dusty. Then we had some rain and suddenly it’s green again.

The trees that were completely green are turning yellow, orange and red. Bright red berries are appearing. Leaves are starting to fall.

I went looking for conkers with a client recently, and there was something ridiculously joyful about wandering around chatting and searching through the grass for these beautiful, shiny brown treasures.

I’ve found feathers in the woods that have come home to join my collection. At the weekend, I picked apples from my own tree and made apple pie and apple crumble.

There’s something really lovely about those little moments of gathering and noticing. Picking something from a tree or finding something on the ground rather than buying it from a supermarket makes me feel, just for a moment, like I’m actually part of what’s happening around me.

And I don’t mean that in a we must all be at one with nature, foraging for our dinner and living in the woods sort of way. I still go to the supermarket like everyone else.

But every now and again, when I actually stop long enough to notice what’s happening outside, I think nature has a lot to teach us.

Nature doesn’t pretend it’s still summer.

Things change. Things fall. Things die back. Things rest.

And other things grow.

Maybe we’re allowed to do that too.

Maybe sometimes we have to let something go, not because it was bad or because it didn’t matter, but because other parts of us are growing and they need room.

We can be grateful for what something gave us and still let it end.

So perhaps that’s what I’m sitting with this autumn.

What has reached the end of its season in my life?

What am I trying desperately to make fit because I’m not quite ready to admit that it doesn’t anymore?

And what is already growing that might need the space?

There doesn’t have to be a big answer or a dramatic life change. Maybe it starts with simply noticing.

Preferably with a cup of tea and a slice of apple crumble.

Because nature might be teaching us about death, grief, transformation and the great cycles of life, but I still think we’re allowed custard.