Find yourself a space where the autumn air can touch your skin—perhaps near an open window or outdoors beneath a tree with leaves turning to amber and rust. Gather around you objects of the season: fallen leaves, acorns, perhaps a small bowl of fresh soil. Sit upon the ground if possible, feeling the cool earth beneath you. Place your palms downward, fingers spread like roots seeking depth. Allow your breath to synchronize with the rhythm of the wind outside—drawing in the crisp October air, releasing warmth back to the world.

Madainn an fhoghair, le d’ anail fhuar
Autumn morning, with your cool breath

Thig thugam a-nis, leis gach duilleag a’ tuiteam
Come to me now, with each falling leaf

Seo an t-àm eadar samhradh agus geamhradh
This is the time between summer and winter

Far a bheil dathan a’ dannsadh ron ghealaich làn
Where colors dance before the full moon

Feel the transition of the season in your body—the way your skin tightens slightly in the cooler air, how your lungs expand more fully with each breath of the crystalline autumn atmosphere. Today, the world is caught in perfect balance between growth and rest, between vibrance and contemplation. The leaves above are turning from green to gold, just as your thoughts turn inward.

Air an latha seo, tha mi a’ faireachdainn dà thaobh
On this day, I feel two sides

Iomagain is sòlas, a’ ruith tro m’ chuislean mar allt
Anxiety and contentment, running through my veins like a stream

Ciamar as urrainn dhaibh a bhith ann còmhla?
How can they exist together?

Mar a’ ghrian is an t-uisge a’ cruthachadh bogha-froise
Like the sun and rain creating a rainbow

Feel the curious interplay of anxiety and contentment within your chest. Notice how they are not opposites but companions in this moment. The anxiety flutters like a bird’s wings beneath your ribs—quick, insistent, alive with energy. The contentment pools deeper, in your belly and the base of your spine—steady, warm, grounding.

Visualize these feelings as mist and sunlight in a forest. The anxiety is the swirling mist, obscuring the path ahead yet beautiful in its mystery. The contentment is the golden light breaking through the canopy, touching everything with momentary perfection. Both are necessary. Both are true.

In autumn, the trees neither cling to summer nor rush toward winter—they simply release what no longer serves, their anxiety transforming into the brilliant display of color we witness. Their contentment manifests in the slow, deliberate process of preparation for rest.

Tha gach craoibh a’ leigeil às
Each tree is letting go

Chan eil eagal orra roi ’n gheamhradh
They do not fear the winter

Tha fios aca gu bheil e a’ tighinn, agus tha iad deiseil
They know it is coming, and they are ready

An-diugh, bidh mi mar a’ chraobh dharaich
Today, I will be like the oak tree

A’ seasamh làidir, a’ leigeil às gu sèimh
Standing strong, releasing gently

Mo fhreumhan domhainn, mo gheugan a’ ruighinn
My roots deep, my branches reaching

Eadar an talamh agus na speuran, tha mi
Between the earth and the skies, I am

Feel the Mother Earth beneath you, her ancient body supporting yours without question or condition. From her dark soil comes all life, all healing. Draw her strength up through your sitting bones, through your spine, into the tender spaces where anxiety flutters.

The Earth knows anxiety—in the trembling before storms, in the tension before lightning strikes. She knows contentment—in the settled weight of mountains, in the patient flow of rivers returning to the sea.

Breathe deeply and imagine your lungs as autumn-colored leaves, filling with light, then releasing. With each exhale, surrender one small worry to the earth below. With each inhale, draw up the steady contentment that comes from being rooted in what matters.

Feel the Mother’s hands—cool soil and stone—pressing gently against your back, supporting you. Her voice—the rustling leaves and distant calls of migrating birds—reminds you that change is not to be feared but witnessed with reverence.

A Mhàthair, gabh ris na tha mi a’ leigeil às
Mother, accept what I am releasing

Tionndaidh e gu talamh dubh, trom, torach
Turn it to soil black, heavy, fertile

Bidh e na bhiadh do na tha ri teachd
It will be food for what is to come

Take a moment to contemplate:

How might your anxiety, like the brilliant color of autumn leaves, be signaling an important transition in your life? In what ways does your contentment, like the oak’s deep roots, allow you to weather the inevitable changes of seasons?

Consider yesterday’s story:

Tha mi ’gam fhàgail fhèin fosgailte
I leave myself open

Do ghliocas an fhoghair agus do ghràdh na talmhainn
To the wisdom of autumn and the love of the earth

Mar a thilleas an duilleach don talamh
As the leaf returns to the soil

Mar sin tillidh m’ iomagain gu sìth
So shall my anxiety return to peace

Mar a mhaireas freumhan na craoibhe tro gheamhradh
As the tree’s roots endure through winter

Mar sin mairidh mo shòlas tro dhubhar
So shall my contentment endure through darkness

Beannachdan an fhoghair dhuibh uile
The blessings of autumn to you all​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​