There are moments when the turning of the year is not merely marked—it is felt, coursing through the marrow like remembered myth. In the Blue Mountains of New South Wales, during the dying light of Mabon, that turning came not as a whisper but as a tide, cloaked in the scents of moss, smoke, and fallen things.
This season of balance—between light and dark, between what is kept and what is surrendered—greeted us not with fanfare but with a shivering grace. The forested ridges held us close beneath their layered greens and ochres, and the sandstone cliffs, ancient and unmoved, watched as we gathered: witches, kin, wanderers of shadow, beloved friends and beautiful fiends alike. Each of us bearing the weight of our own harvests, the remnants of our own sacrifices, and a hunger for the old rites that only the land itself could answer.
The days had grown shorter, the light falling through the trees like gold filtered through ash. Smoke from distant fires wreathed the air, not choking but sacred—an omen and offering. We walked through it like spirits returned to the waking world, feet stirring leaf and root, breath made visible in the cool hush of Autumn’s descent.
At the heart of a clearing, beneath twisted boughs and sentinel stones, the altar was raised—adorned with antlers, dried blood-orange, bones, seed pods, and blackened candles. Everything bore the patina of the season: rust, soot, and the silence of things that have ended well. We dressed the altar in offerings from both wild and hearth—banksia cones and burnt honey bread, obsidian shards, rosemary tied in crimson thread, and jars filled with intentions spoken into smoke.
The circle was cast not with words, but with presence—each of us anchoring the space in our own way, some silent, some chanting in the old tongue, others letting the land speak through their stillness. Ravens cried from the canopy above, and the wind turned colder just before the flame was lit. We did not speak of gratitude lightly—ours is the gratitude of those who have tasted both loss and triumph, who have walked through the dark and emerged altered.
We gave thanks for the harvests of shadow-
For the truths revealed under pressure.
For the friends who stayed.
For the clarity found in pain.
For the power reclaimed from old bindings.
For the blood-price paid, and the wisdom earned.