Growing Old with Persephone in the Autumn

(Update: As of today, 17 pounds lost.)

We have one peach tree and one Bartlett pear tree in our backyard. They're small even though we've had them for years. The peach tree gave us enough this year for a peach crumble, a few peaches to snack on, and a tray of slices to freeze. The peaches were small and came on early in the withering heat of this summer. Still, they were beautiful with that rosy blush overlaid  a sunny yellow--it's as though in ripening, nature distilled the color of sunsets and sunrises, sweetened it with the taste of early morning coolness and moisture. When I pulled the last of the peaches from the burgeoning tree, it seemed that Persephone was there, watching from the shadows of our juniper trees, with dark green eyes and nutmeg hair.

For me, there has always been a distinctly feminine feel in the air of spring and autumn. Some might call it Gia, the spirit of Mother Earth; others might say it is a female goddess. I don't know--but in a corner of my mind I feel as though I should leave out a bowl of wine for the moon to reflect in and a plate of vegetables and fruit from our small garden as an offering.

Our pears are really coming on this week. Every day more fall to the ground than did the day before. The pear tree is leaning over like a heavily pregnant woman about to give birth. The first batch of pears were ripe, but mushy on the inside. The ones we're harvesting now are beautiful through and through with a smooth, mellow taste. I love pears with almonds or walnuts in yogurt or oatmeal with just a dash of cinnamon and maple syrup. Each fruit that is dropped upon the ground seems a small divine gift. Persephone's soft breath is in the hissing of dry leaves against the fence, the barely audible plop of fruit falling from branch to ground.

I am glad that even though my time of fertility is past, that I still feel that mysterious female presence of the Earth at this time of year. I felt it mostly keenly when pregnant with my daughter. She was due in September, but came in late August. I remember sitting on my front porch in the cooler evenings of late August, resting my hands on my swollen belly, feeling my daughter move. Geese flew in formation, practicing for their autumn migration. It seemed right that I should be giving birth during the season of harvest.

Two years later, we had an incredible harvest moon one evening in late autumn. The moon was huge and it was green! I scooped up my two-year-old daughter and walked out into the humming night. I thought of how the moon had been worshipped as a female goddess in centuries past.The moon, looming as close as it would get that year, had a spiritual presence I cannot give words to. I pointed out the moon to my daughter. I wish I could remember whether she said anything--but she was awestruck, then snuggled in close to me, wrapping her arms around my neck. It was wordless thanks and recognition that the two of us, both women, felt a tie to one another and to the feminine side of nature.

As I slipped into middle-age and left the child-bearing years behind, I felt a deep sadness at first--there would be no more babies growing inside me, no more feeling the butterfly movement beneath my skin, no more quiet moments nursing. I had always dreamed of four children--but when you marry and have children in your mid- and late thirties, you have to recalibrate your expectations. I focused on the two great kids I have.

They're both in high school now--one is a senior and the other a freshman. They still need me, but not as constantly as they did when they were little. I have emotional and physical space for the things I need to do for myself--to pursue my creative writing, to develop my career, and to get into good shape so I can enter old age as healthy and fit within whatever parameters are in my control.

I wrote in an earlier post that at times my mind thinks I'm still a young woman who can still do things that my body is no longer up to. I think that by getting into shape and becoming healthier, the disparity between my mind and body will go away. I will become in tune physically and mentally with the woman I am becoming. Yes, I'm aging--but I am, you are, all of us, are works in progress until the day we take our last breath. And then who knows what journey is beyond that? Living fully is surely preparation for that unknown flight.