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One of our least observed days. The autumn equinox, jamdøger, autumn blót, Mabon and several other names. And the French revolutionaries' new year, in fact. I was just a young girl when I was first made aware of the wheel of the year. Or rather, not the wheel of the year as we know it today, because I had no idea that was what it was called, but that there was a connection between all our celebrations. And: that not all the celebrations had kept their place in our awareness as the years went by and we all became so impressively developed. My absolute favourite day of the whole year has always been what I call Black Christmas Eve, the 22nd of December. Then candles are lit, a small gift is given (either from others or from myself), and a pleasant stillness settles over the whole day. That is my Christmas. In the middle of the Christmas rush there should be a little magic and calm preserved, even in my upbringing, even in a family of five where most of us didn't really behave as though we liked one another.
With one foot of the family in religion and the other in the household of humanism, with a pinch of pagan as seasoning, I learned early about Christmas, and our celebration of that time of year here in the north, how the observance has changed through the ages. I learned about the other celebrations, several that were no longer regarded as important. The spring celebrations, with the 1st of February, the spring equinox and "May Night" standing out among them, became part of my childhood knowledge. My childhood faith. Midsummer was a big day, with a magnificent bonfire, lots of food and celebration until late into the night. For me, who has never liked fireworks, this was a pleasant version of New Year's. For many, autumn was empty and dull. Nothing really seems to happen from the end of July until Christmas.
"November is so sad and dreary, but useful all the same, for then the children must make their own fun" we sang every single autumn. As a November child, I dreaded this part of Prøysen's collection of songs. Apparently nothing happened between the end of August and Advent; the verse was short and felt thrown in just to include all the months.
Or... is there perhaps something that happens after all? For me, the autumn equinox has been special. Jamdøger, we called it, as it is called in several parts of the country. It was never clearly marked when I was growing up, but always mentioned and respected.
One of the things that fascinated me during my upbringing was, of course, that the earth tilts a little and this creates the seasons, but not least that people throughout all time had observed this. These days of observance were not some new invention, not something that had come about because of great telescopes and calculations, not the technology we hold up as the absolute pinnacle of progress.
No, these were days that had been marked for thousands of years. By the people who were considered primitive. The ones who ran around with clubs, hammers and chisels, and that's it, supposedly. Right.
This is the foundational knowledge within us. Our base. The wheel of the year, the closest we come to a perpetual motion machine. Autumn for me is clear air, mixed with a little smell of manure where the farmer works for next year's harvest. An explosion of colour, where the year's leaves leave the stage with an artist's flourish and lay a crackling carpet beneath our feet. Autumn for me is change and stability, mixed with the knowledge, the expectations and the dread of what awaits in the coming months.
The autumn equinox is wet in the seat from sitting on the damp ground, cold in the cheeks from lifting one's gaze toward the wind, and with a touch of earache and joint pain from a body that creaks with an older sound than I care to admit. The autumn equinox is also putting on dry socks and warming oneself in a cosy blanket, feeling the skin grow lukewarm from stove or fire, stubborn candles flickering and the wind passing by. The autumn equinox is sound, where the rain drips, the wind pushes and the trees exhale. It is silence, where the world is wrapped up by closed doors and windows. The autumn equinox is also contact with nature.
Are there special days in the wheel of the year when contact is easier to achieve?
Is the veil thinner, or are the frequencies between the otherwise (partly) separated worlds finally in the same key? I don't know, and I don't really care. Call it love of nature, call it trance, call it experiences, call it whatever you like.
From the age of about five, this day and period has given me the opportunity to be in more direct contact, especially with what many call the "little folk", or the "Elves" as I called them during my upbringing. The friends of my childhood. The ones I went to when I was being myself. Before human cruelty came barging in, blustering, and took with it trust, self-worth and belonging. I was away from the Elves for many years. Life let itself be pushed in a different direction than my soul thrived in, but after several years I finally looked in the right direction again, at least. It was surprisingly easy to come home again. On a drum journey at Rånåsfoss I met them anew. I was met by eager and happy friends, where the reunion was reason enough for celebration. Where everything was easy, as though we had been apart no longer than a short while. They showed off their families and many fine things they made, told of those who had passed on and those who had travelled. While we sat there at Rånåsfoss – and at the same time not there – gathered in thoughtful companionship each on our own, my old friends came to me one by one. One pointed at the worry lines between my eyes and smiled; one wanted me to hold her grandchild and give it strength and balance. Others wanted to know my thoughts and advice on various important matters. I sat for a long time, didn't want to travel back when the drum changed its waves, and left a little reluctantly. But since the door had been opened again, I knew that the way is now short. With this experience, pushed-aside memories returned, from when I sat in the forest behind the house where I grew up and played with the youngest of this flock that the others couldn't see. Where we shared the finest cones, stones and sticks, where the earth was given intricate-yet-simple patterns and figures were made. Where I learned about edible and inedible roots and leaves. Where I was thoroughly tricked and tricked back.
My very first memory of a jamdøger is from that time. I was shown even more times and beings. Later I got to meet my former self, my soul from another time, and understood both more and less. The memories also brought back to life other contacts, other "filing cabinets" that had stood hidden and dusty in the innermost corner of my attic. The experience also confirmed for me why I never thought of the Elves and the others who dwelt on their side of the veil as different beings existing only in the imagination. It was real. It IS real. My reality. There is much I have forgotten. Many good and useful memories lie hidden behind boxes full of heavy events, and they are fragile and shimmering, hopeful and shy. They must be handled with care and respect to be able to shine with strength. And like a doorman, fear stands there grinning, until the day I step forward and push it aside. I am not as active now with ceremonies and gatherings; it is a process going on within me where my need to fit in quarrels, like siblings, with the need to be fully and wholly myself. That is why this year's autumn equinox was marked calmly and quietly here at home. No official ceremony this year. It wasn't necessary for me; on the contrary, it was a natural step in recent years' various celebrations, where none have been alike. I had no need to open the sacred space, or call in the directions. That is everyday life now, I am already there. And I am in the right place. The autumn equinox for me is contemplative. And forward-looking. And here and now. Just as autumn is grey and colourful at the same time. Just as the autumn equinox is both night and day. Like yin and yang.
The autumn equinox. One of our least observed days. A day I am grateful that Sjamanistisk Forbund and others are bringing back into the good company of days of observance. A spoke in the aforementioned wheel of the year, the spoke that got no ornamental bauble when progress souped up its electric bike.
It has never been gone.
