Samhain Sickness

2 a.m. thoughts on seasonal change and not practicing what I preach

“There can be no Bealtaine without Samhain”

Dolores Whelan

The moon has me awake.

I give up and give in.

Give up on sleep, and give in to how her bright fullness streaming through the curtainless window has activated my brain.

I’m lost to thought now.

Thoughts of how I do not practice what I preach.

For I could just as easily copy and paste here the post I wrote at this exact same time last year, and it would cover everything I need to say.

Because it is Samhain and I’m sick. Again. For the second year in a row (or is it the third?). And everything I said last year, about how sickness had intervened to force me to slow down when I refused to listen to the seasonal shift into the dark, non-productive, non-doing half of the year, has happened again. I did not learn. I did not practice what I knew to be true back then, and I am sick once again.

But I know why. I know why I am here, in the depths of a miserable cold, awake at 2 a.m., in the liminal half-light between nightfall and morning, brooding in my Samhain Sickness.

I have a bad relationship with rest; with not being productive.

In both my inner (bodily) and outer (natural seasons) seasons I am exceedingly more comfortable with Spring and Summer — with what many refer to as the energetically masculine half of the year. The times of doing, producing and getting sh*t done — they suit me.

I managed, a while back, to make peace with Winter. I like it’s no-nonsense, clear-cut call to rest and stop. But Autumn. Autumn is a challenge. Autumn is neither here nor there. Autumn is liminal, and Autumn is when I first start to feel the fierce getting sh*t done energy drop away. And I hate it!

I noticed it arrive a few weeks back. The seasonal shift. The burning active summer fire in my belly —to write and make and create— dwindling to an ember. My morning routine of writing 300 words first thing got hard. I felt the creative lucid speed of that bright season go, replaced by a desire to just sit. To sit and think and reflect. To wonder and dream.

Sitting and staring out a window in a cosy jumper, a cup of steaming tea in hand is the idyllic picture-perfect Autumnal image Instagram dreams are made of. And I’ve tried, I’m very good at staring out of windows and letting my mind wander.

But watch where my mind, without its Summer productive energy, goes:

“You’re not doing enough, you’ve not done enough, why are you so slow [at writing], what have you got to show for this last year you dedicated to the Women of Ireland Project”?

These are familiar internal conversations. No matter how much I do, it is never ‘enough’.

Earlier this year, a close friend explained that she thinks I have a very strong internal ‘demanding parent’ — one of the schema modes within schema therapy.

I agree.

And ‘demanding parent’ is showing up in full force right now as my body is naturally responding to the seasonal call to sloooowwwww down. I think she [the demanding parent] is scared she could be usurped by rest and reflection.

I read that one of the ways to placate a demanding internal parent is to highlight your achievements or accomplishments.

So, what have I done this year (from last October to this October)?

A quick list:

• Written (at time of writing this) 105,037 words (which about 10-15% might make it into the final ‘Women of Ireland Project’ book because, genuinely, the rest are not good enough)

• Presented on The Women of Ireland Project at two events.

• Analysed 21 of the 37 Women of Ireland Project interviews to a standard I am happy with (my goal was to complete the analysis by the end of this year — that is now not going to happen and ‘demanding parent’ is extremely unhappy)

• Created this Substack and published a post every two weeks since last October (apart from a wee break last Christmas)

• And much harder to quantify — developed my thinking, gained more knowledge, made new friends because of the Women of Ireland Project, had hundreds of conversations that have enriched my life, rode the wave of transition from a ‘proper job’ to a ‘freelance life’, and manifested a house move to provide a home environment that is better suited to my constitution.

Even as I write this, I think “That doesn’t look like much for a whole year” — but I know the reality of the thousands of hours and the effort, so whatever ‘demanding parent’. I will always feel I could have done more and haven’t done enough. But when that’s the only voice I listen to, I end up here, in my Samhain Sickness.

My busy brain is already thinking to the year ahead. Of all the things I need and want to do. How much I need to write. How much I need to research. How many more Women of Ireland Project interviews I need to analyse. The new off-shoots of new ways and projects to bring this work into the world starting to pull at me, asking to be let in.

But not yet. Not yet, I must tell myself.

For it is Autumn now, in the descent to Winter. It is not the time for action. It’s the time for floating in the in-between, deciding what must go and what needs to be dreamed in.

So, this year, I’m going to try an experiment. I’m going to really try and live by what I am preaching here — and approach Autumn and Winter not as a time to force myself to keep producing at the same ‘Summer’ pace. But to stop and reflect and think and dream and gather and prepare. For as I heard the wonderful Celtic Spiritualist Dolores Whelan say earlier this week “There can be no Bealtaine without Samhain” — meaning there can be no bright, full-in-the-sun peak producing time without first passing through the stillness and quiet of the dark Winter. And I’ve never given that the respect it deserves.

I bought bulbs yesterday. Hundreds of bulbs. Daffodils. Tulips. Snowdrops. Anemones. All my favourite Spring flowers. “Plant September to December, for bloom February to June”.

How wise nature is.

Today I will plant them. Into the dark, fecund soil of the garden around our new home. And when I next stare out the window, lost to thought, I’ll be glad to think of them there, waiting and readying themselves in the cosy ground, gathering what they need to burst forth in full bloom when Spring arrives.

I want the same.