“Leaves Falling, Dead Men Calling”

Fall in the mountains. Some of this I see, some I think I maybe see, some I remember, and finally it’s hard to tell which is which. The flanks of the moutains are turning to gold. Towards evening they are deep violet and the air is a smoky lavender and smells of falling leaves. The nights are silent, the breath of the mountains inheld, waiting for the snow.

My heart should be rising up, I think, in preparation for the festival of Thanksgiving. Rather I think of myself buried among the leaves, slipping deep into sleep, the snow tucking me away for a long (forever?) sleep. Maybe I’m feeling the earth pulling the life force back into itself. Michaelmas has come and gone and there’s nothing left for it now but to sleep.

The saints’ days are markers of the old pagan year, the old understanding that our life was conditioned by the movements of the natural world. It’s interesting to say, and to think, that the Archangel Michael has slain the Luciferic dragon, and that the etheric energy of the earth, stretched out so far during the summer, now hurtles back into the earth like falling angels.

And it so nicely reflects the sorrow as blue twilights dissolve into winter darkness, the leaves fall, gardens are now just mounds of brown rubbish. Jesus said “I bring a sword,” and Evangelical Christianity is that, for sure. It has no time for the sweet melancholia of saints’ days. As Leonard Cohen wrote “The simple lives of heroes, and the twisted lives of saints, just confuse my little calendar, with their red and golden dates.”

Is it death itself that the Evangelicals have no time for? “You’re not going to die,” they say, so forcefully. “Get up and rejoice.” Sounds good, but catch them on a bad day, and they may be singing a different song. Leonard Cohen again “Oh you who must leave everything that you cannot control . . . . . . . when you’re not feeling holy your loneliness tells you you’ve sinned.”

Me, I feel like I’m dying. Is it the year that’s dying, is it depression, or is it true? Like the mountains, gold and violet, seen? imagined? rememembered? it doesn’t matter which. It’s okay to feel like, or to be, a falling leaf.

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