I’ve always thought of autumn as a season of quiet shedding—it prepares us for a world that will be shutting down and then sit dormant.
Since moving from London to the foot of the Cambrian mountains in Wales five years ago, I have come to understand that autumn is also a season of giving and abundance. You can see this in the blackberries that suddenly appear on the hedgerows.
When I lived in the city—which I did for most of my life—everything seemed available all year. I never really got a chance to see the gifts of each new season. And because of this, the characteristics of spring, summer, autumn and winter became somewhat blurred. No one season was allowed to sit in its own spotlight.
In the valley where I live, blackberry picking is a collective activity. People walk around the village filling tupperware with the season’s handpicked fruit. I love this communal celebration of the humble blackberry; it is an acknowledgement that all living things have a season and are finite. And for a short time, even though we may be sitting in our own homes, we share the joy of eating blackberry and apple crumble.
Last week I took a piece of my crumble to my friend Wilf, a farmer in his seventies. He was on his tractor when I arrived. “Wilf, I brought you some crumble!” I shouted across the field. I waved the plastic container that carried the crumble. Wilf waved back. I left the container in his shed and bid him farewell.
Walking back home on the narrow road, l recognised the fallen leaves, and the air that carried the slight weight of the smell of early autumn. Since living in the countryside, I have not only noticed the transitional periods of the year more acutely, but I have also saluted the beginnings and endings in life with a greater peace.
Wilf once told me that we’re merely custodians of the earth; that nothing ever belongs to us, not really. Like another farmer, he never married and doesn’t have children, and there’s always talk of to whom the farms will be passed down in the absence of offspring. Wilf’s message about custodianship made me reflect on my own situation. As a childfree woman, to whom will I leave my possessions? Though our lives are vastly different, Wilf and I share this conundrum.
It is easy to allocate monetary possessions, but what about the things that are sentimental? Who will get the ring that once belonged to my deceased mother?
Like the passing of a farm, the people to whom we pass our sentimental belongings require some kind of vetting: if I passed on my mother’s ring to my 10-year-old goddaughter—who is too young to remember her—could I trust her to cherish the ring, as I do? Farming is no easy task; it requires heart and soul and, in a way, this is what I will be looking for in the person to whom I choose to give my mother’s ring.
But perhaps I shouldn’t fret too much. The Antiques Roadshow is proof that many people cherish items that once belonged to relatives that they’ve never met. People are often tied to an object by their relationship to the last custodian—for my goddaughter, her feelings about the ring will be a reflection of the dynamic we share.
The philosopher Heraclitus famously said: “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” With the passage of time, life moves forward, and everything left behind we will call history. When I’m gone, I will no longer be the custodian of the ring and its meaning will alter with the new owner. Just like Heraclitus’s river, it will not be the same ring. This is how life and the seasons work; in the exchange of hands. Acknowledging this philosophy has brought me comfort and clarity.
Just like autumn, one day I, and the childfree farmers, will have to let go of what can no longer belong to us. Like summer, we will have to make way for a new season. Autumn may show us how beautiful it is to let things go. And that doing so willingly bears its own kind of fruit.
