In the week after the clocks have gone back and it’s dark by five, with a faint smell of woodsmoke in the air I walked the lanes at dusk just as I did all those years ago whilst accompanying one or other child to Beavers or Brownies. The last of the light dipped behind the hedge, and the world went quiet. Back at home I lit the kitchen candles, made a cuppa and sat down to read.
The Celts called this the thin time of the year. This weekend (31 Oct into 1 Nov) Samhain, marks the turn from the light half of the year to the dark, and the old belief was that the veil between the living and the dead wore thin enough to feel and connect with our ancestors. The Christian Church, gave us All Saints on 1 November and All Souls on 2 November, a day set aside to pray for the departed. Different traditions but essentially the same human impulse to remember, to look back.
You don't need to believe in anything at all to feel it.
Why autumn stirs grief
If you've noticed your mood dipping as the leaves come down, you're not imagining it. Autumn is a season of visible endings. The garden dies back, the light drains away and we draw indoors. It is nature's own rehearsal for loss, and our bodies respond to it. Less daylight affects sleep and mood, and a quieter, slower season leaves more room for what we have been keeping busy enough to avoid.
Then there's the calendar of memory. The first October without someone. The birthday that falls in November. The place at the table that will be glaringly empty by Christmas, which is already creeping into the shops. Grief doesn't keep office hours, and it certainly doesn't keep to the calendar, but autumn arrives to tap us on the shoulder.
Many of my clients tell me the same thing at this time of year: "I thought I was doing better." They are, usually. This isn't a setback. It's the season doing what it has always done, asking us to remember. We need to make room for it.
The old traditions weren't about wallowing in what we’ve lost. They were about making space to remember, and that is something we can all do, in small, quiet ways.
Light a candle. Say a name out loud. It takes two minutes and it matters more than you'd expect.
Share a story. Cook their favourite dish, play their song, tell the tale everyone laughs at.
Visit somewhere that holds them. A grave, a bench, a favourite footpath. Take a flask. Stay as long as you like.
Write a letter to the person you miss, and tuck it away or burn it in the wood burner.
Plant something. Bulbs are an act of faith in tomorrow, and a quiet way of keeping someone close.
Be gentle with the diary. Say no to the thing you can't face. Leave a little empty space on All Souls.
None of this needs to be elaborate. As I've written before, rituals don't just mark time; they create it. Time to feel, to remember, to be with what is. You don't have to do this alone. One of the hardest things about grief is how isolating it can feel, particularly when everyone else seems to be getting on with things. But the thin time of the year is exactly when we need company.
If you're carrying a loss, whether it happened last week or twenty years ago, I'd love to hear from you. I offer one-to-one grief support, and I'd be glad to talk through what might help.
You're also warmly invited to Open Arms Grief Café at The Hub@BA15, in the Old Town Hall on Church Street, Bradford on Avon. Our next session is on Monday 2nd November. There's no agenda, no need to book and no pressure to talk. Come for tea, coffee, cake and company, and stay for as long or as little as you need. Sometimes simply sitting alongside people who understand is enough.
Get in touch to talk about grief support, or find out more about the Grief Café.