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Several years ago I wrote a post for a now defunct website. At the time, I was focused on writing more than crafting. I wasn't pursuing anything spiritual, in fact, I was busy suppressing my emotions, ignoring all signs of something more than the physical world. The website wanted something mildly spooky for the October posts. I chose to write about my family's ghosts. It seemed appropriate.
Now, at a much different phase of my life, I'm fascinated by how our gifts, spiritual and mundane, can arrive long before we are ready to acknowledge them. I see how I minimalized, if kindly, an ability I now tap into frequently. It takes time and effort to grow such skills, to learn to trust our instincts and find people who nourish that growth. When it happens, a vast and wonderful new existence opens before us. Enjoy this slice of the past. Happy Spooky Season. October Memories - Originally published October 2016 I’ve written this blog post half a dozen times. I wanted to talk about dense fog surrounding a drafty castle, the chill that follows an unexpected, often unwelcome, guest through the door. I wanted to dwell on a time of death, on the scent of molding leaves that draws us into cemeteries and makes us worry about mortality. I wanted to remind everyone of Bradbury, Jackson, Poe, and Shelley, of the fear inherent in this time of year. I am simply unable to do so. October does something to the brain; it will not be ignored. Where I live, the month will warm and cool in a fickle sort of way. The wind whips colored leaves in a whirling dervish as it whispers occult words that go ignored at any other time of year. October’s mercurial nature lends itself to discussing the dead. From culture to culture, it seems that fall has that effect on humanity. For me, October has always been a favorite month. Whether it was my early interest in the metaphysical or my family’s tendency to embrace the season, I’ve often found October more comforting than frightening. As a child, I would immerse myself in horrific fairy tales and morbid folklore year-round. Only in October would the rest of the world embrace the witches, fair folk, and magic beings that I loved. It was called a dangerous season, though I knew the supernatural could find you in any month. Good manners, quick wits, and a healthy dose of suspicion will keep you safe when the ordinary rules go out the window. As I grew older, pop culture caught up. I gleefully watched shows like Are You Afraid of the Dark, The X-Files, The Twilight Zone, and Unsolved Mysteries. Movies skewed supernatural friendly with titles like The Addams Family and Hocus Pocus. Coast to Coast on am radio was a late night friend, a standard for ghost hunters and alien abductees long before podcasts were popular. The otherworldly was fascinating, not just to me, but to everyone. My family reinforced my inquisitive approach to fall. Our Octobers were spent amid bonfires, craft tents, and apple orchards. Autumn was a time of comfort and fellowship, in which our home was base camp for Halloween festivities. Dad would light a fire while mom prepared homemade chili and steaming mugs of cider. It was a month of warm memories and joyful recollection. My family’s approach to ghosts has always been similar to our approach to the season. Supernatural experiences are welcome because they usually involve family. With lots of light and comfortable rooms, my little pre-fab home from the sixties doesn’t look like the standard haunted house. It’s been through renovations and cleanings, new furniture and new carpeting since my aunt and uncle died over a decade ago, but they still like to check in. The windchimes that hang from the top of my stairs were once owned by family. I keep them inside the house as a reminder of good memories. They don’t make a lot of noise, or rather, they aren’t supposed to. Occasionally they will chime, and the sound will bring the strong odor of my uncle’s cigarette smoke or my aunt’s perfume. It’s been twenty or more years since my uncle smoked in the house and we have been unable to find my aunt’s scented powder for over a decade. Still, the smells are noticed regularly by guests and family alike. My grandmother never lived in the house, though she visits too. Her wooden clock was passed down to my mother before it came to my home. Battery-operated with a brass pendulum, the timepiece has not worked for almost thirty years, despite it visiting multiple clock repair shops. It will return from the shop, work for a few days, then the brand new mechanisms quit functioning. Every time it stops, my mother removes the batteries. Every October, within a week of my grandmother’s birthday, the clock chimes erratically. For a few minutes it sounds as if it is being shaken to pieces, then the clock goes silent for another year. Grandma always had a wicked sense of humor. Whether the ghosts I’ve had experiences with haunt places or people, most have been echoes of those I love. The angry spirits I’ve encountered have been few, and none came in October, but those stories are for a different blog post. For me, October brings kind spirits, a warm kitchen, and the love of family. May the changing leaves and the dying season bring you sweet surprises and the love of those past and present.
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 I recently read that Keats called autumn the "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness." How very appropriate, especially for central Illinois. While we're still a few weeks from the official start of fall, here thoughts are turning to apple picking, long sleeves, cooler temperatures, and the inevitable burst of changing colors.
Fall is a favorite time of mine. It's a time of reflection and celebration, as we sprinkle a little cinnamon into our cider and taste the fruits of the growing season. It's time of wisdom and foresight, as we think ahead on how to sustain ourselves during the winter months. It's a true time of transition. Transition is an odd thing. As with any growth, it can be painful. Like the cicadas that were so plentiful this summer, transition means digging ourselves out of comfortable beds and breaking out of shells that were too confining. It's not easy. Sometimes you lose a bit of yourself. But transition can be empowering. It's a clear indication that we are moving, and still part of the cycle. This year, I've done a lot of moving. I started attacking my chronic pain with physical therapy and resilience courses. That lead to researching sound healing. I reconnected with the musician inside me that has been dormant for years. I've always believed music was healing, and now I'm actively giving that gift to others. At the same time, my crafting changed, focusing on more spiritual and metaphysical items. Friendships I made reinforced the spiritual nature of all I was doing. It's all connected. As it should be. When I first started this website, I was primarily writing fiction. As I grew, I turned to writing non-fiction, using that to nourish my social side while my introverted side found creative joy in crafting. The website changed to reflect that. Now, as we settle into fall, I'm embracing all connections and synchronicities of this year, and the website is shifting again. Books are no longer offered. Sound Healing sessions are available for reservations. I'm partnering with WitchCrafted events to bring my crafts and services to private parties around central Illinois. It's change. It's necessary. I'm happy in my own little autumn. Take some time this fall to reflect on your own transitions. Do something special for yourself to celebrate whatever changes you made. Be proud of your growth. You've earned it. |
AuthorI'm Harley. Musician, Writer, Crafter, Wanderer. Passionate soul trying to live life to the fullest ArchivesCategories |
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