Mabon

Here, apples and amber light; where you are, what is sweet because it will not last?

The autumn equinox mirrors Ostara—day and night again in balance, the world again at the threshold. But where spring’s balance tips toward light, autumn’s tips toward dark. The scales level, then descend.

This is the second harvest, the fruit harvest. Apples, pears, grapes, late vegetables. The abundance is almost obscene—so much, and so little time to gather it. What isn’t harvested now will rot on the vine. There’s urgency under the gold.

Practice

Eat an apple slowly, seed to stem. Notice the sweetness, yes, but also the complexity—the faint tartness, the texture, the places where the flesh has bruised. This is what ripeness tastes like: perfect, and already passing.

Make something to preserve. Jam, pickles, dried fruit, canned tomatoes. Anything that takes the abundance of now and holds it for later. Our ancestors’ survival depended on this work. Honor it.

Find a high place and look at the land. The light is different now—lower, more golden, casting longer shadows. The year is tilting. Can you feel it?

Reflection

What are you grateful for that will not last? What needs preserving before winter comes?

Notes

The apple cut crosswise reveals a five-pointed star—the seeds arranged in a pentacle at the fruit’s heart. This is old knowledge, hidden in plain sight.