The Earth Breathes in Gold
The grass is all golden now—parched from the summer sun, it sways in the meadows and scatters its seed freely. The birds know. They come to feast on this offering, just as they do in my garden where fallen grass seed awaits them. The roses have spent their bloom and now concentrate their energy inward, ripening their hips until the moment they will burst open with readiness.
The evening primroses are in full flower—opening to greet the morning sun, closing as the heat deepens, then unfurling again in the twilight to drink in moonlight. Later, in the cooling hush of autumn, they too will feed the goldfinches and bullfinches with their seed.
In the hedgerows, dark glistening purple jewels hang in abundance—blackberries, haws, hazelnuts swelling slowly, their hues deepening from green to russet. The crab apple trees appear to struggle under the weight of this year’s bounty, their limbs heavy with promise. Rowan berries blaze crimson in the late summer sun, small testaments to the earth’s overflowing generosity.
Taking in My Harvest
All around, the land offers up the fruits of spring’s quiet promise. And so too, I gather my own harvest.
The children have completed another year of school, bright and resilient. My Welsh course is now finished, a milestone behind me—though my language journey, like the cycle of seasons, continues onward.
What began as intuitive seedings in spring—my vision for Barefoot & Belonging, with all its layered purpose—is now beginning to unfold, gently and intentionally.
This moment, this midsummer threshold, feels ripe for reflection. Whether it’s ideas swelling like a gathering wave or physical projects reaching their completion—redecorating, writing, organizing—we begin to witness the fruits of our labour.
What was once tender and uncertain now gathers shape and substance.
Turning Toward the Quiet Shift
But there is also change in the air—barely noticeable, unless you truly look for it.
The morning carries a cooler breath now, and the late evenings hush with a softened chill. The sun no longer wakes me at 4am; it lingers longer in sleep, and retires just a bit earlier each night. These subtleties, if we allow them to speak to us, remind us that this season of abundance is not eternal. The wheel is turning once more, gently guiding us toward autumn’s hush and the misty shawl of winter.
Nature, of course, already knows. She begins her preparations, offering fruits and grains in abundance. The bats, the squirrels, the hedgehogs—they will soon feast and store, readying themselves for quiet slumber beneath leaf and root.
Storing Up the Light
And we too can use this time to reflect—not only on how far we’ve come, but on what we wish to carry forward.
In these modern days, we no longer depend on gathering food stores for winter survival, yet we can still feel the slow gnaw of long indoor days and the absence of the sun’s warmth on our skin. We are not untouched by seasonal scarcity—it simply wears a different face now. So this is a good moment to ask ourselves: What will nourish us during the darker half of the year?
Are there books whispering to be read, creative pastimes waiting to be begun, or home spaces we long to infuse with softness and care? What seeds can we plant now, under the summer sun, that might bloom quietly in winter’s stillness?
By preparing—by consciously caching our hopes and intentions—we can meet the dark not with dread, but with welcome. Perhaps this time can become something treasured, even longed for: a season of inner fire, quiet beauty, and soul-rich unfolding.
Below, I offer a simple ritual to help you begin the quiet art of wintering with intention and care.
The Sun Keeper’s Blessing
Setting the Space
- 🌾 Choose a natural space—garden, meadow edge, or near a tree where the season speaks gently.
- 🕯 Lay out symbolic items: summer fruits, freshly picked herbs, a handful of grain, a candle or lantern, and something personal that represents your harvest (a photo, a poem, an object tied to a goal achieved).
Opening: Grounding & Gratitude
- 🌬️ Begin with breath. Let your feet touch the earth. Inhale summer’s warmth, exhale with thanks.
- 💬 Speak aloud or whisper words of gratitude:
I give thanks for the fruits of this season—what the land has offered, what my spirit has gathered, what my hands have shaped.
Reflection: The Harvest
- 📜 Write or speak what you’ve harvested this year—skills gained, connections deepened, intentions fulfilled.
- 🔥 Light the candle: a symbol of the inner sun, still strong. Let its warmth anchor what is to be remembered.
Preparation: The Winter Cache
- 🌰 Take a small pouch, basket, or notebook. Place inside or write down:
- Books to read
- Projects to nurture
- Comfort rituals to sustain you
- Affirmations or hopes
- Creative pursuits to explore
May these become my store of light, my cache of nourishment, when the sun retreats and the world turns inward.
Infusing the Anchor Object
- 🌻 Choose a small item to embody summer’s warmth—perhaps a seed head, dried berry, sunflower seed, ornament, or image.
As you read over your personal harvest and light the candle, hold this object gently in your hand.
Envision the golden light of the season flowing into it: the laughter, the growth, the sun-drenched days and fruitful work.
Let it absorb the essence of your abundance. - 🪶 Place this item in your pouch alongside your winter cache. Let it become a physical anchor—a sun-stored reminder of what you have gathered, and what still glows within you.
When creativity wanes or winter shadows lengthen, take it out. Feel its warmth. Remember this fullness, and the light still carried inside.
Blessing & Closure
- 💧 Sprinkle a little water across your chosen items to seal the intention.
- 🌗 As the candle flickers, speak a blessing:
May this turning bring wisdom.
May my cache be full of grace and fire.
May I walk gently into the dusk, carrying the light I’ve gathered.
Let us be keepers of Warmth
Let us be keepers of warmth, curators of quiet light.
What we gather now, we carry gently into the hush.
Even as the sun leans westward, we remember: the glow remains, within.
Concluding Reflection
The season turns, but its gifts remain.
This ritual, this reflection, is not an ending but a laying-down—a way to meet the deepening hush with grace.
As Lughnasadh whispers us into the slower rhythm of the year, may we carry with us the golden traces of all we’ve gathered—small triumphs, tender growth, and the heart-glow of presence.
Let what you’ve planted guide your path forward.
Let what you’ve harvested nourish the months to come.
An Invitation to Pause
Lughnasadh is a time to pause and take stock. It invites us to witness what we’ve grown—within the soil, within ourselves. There is grace in this noticing, in honouring the efforts that often go unseen. The garden teaches us: patience yields beauty, rhythm nourishes all.
Let this be a time of quiet celebration.
Walk barefoot through grass dusted in gold.
Gather windfallen seeds or berries.
Whisper a word of thanks to the rosehip, the bird, the labour of your own hands.
For soon the wheel will turn again, and all that glows gold will fade to nurture next year’s promise.
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