Meditation: October 18th, 2025

"The earth does not belong to us; we belong to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites one family." — Indigenous Wisdom

Find yourself in a place where you may rest your body fully—seated upon the ground if possible, or upon a chair with your feet grounded beneath you. If indoors, open a window to allow the autumn air to touch your skin. Feel the cool kiss of October upon your face. Place your hands palm-down upon your knees or thighs, allowing your fingers to spread wide as if reaching toward soil. Your spine should be upright, dignified, like a sapling yet unbent by storms. Around you, whether real or imagined, envision the skeletal branches of autumn trees, their leaves scattered in burnt gold and russet upon damp earth. The air carries the scent of decay and renewal—rich, loamy, alive with transformation.

A Mhàthair na Talmhainn, Mother of the Earth, I come to you as the wheel turns toward the dark half of the year. The day grows thin, the light withdraws, and I stand at the threshold between what has been ripened and what must now rest.

Mo chridhe, my heart, opens to receive the wisdom of October's turning. Gu sìth, to peace. Gu geal, to light. Gu neart, to strength.

I call upon the root-deep knowing that dwells beneath my feet. I call upon the stillness of seeds that know their season of sleep. I call upon the turning year that teaches me both the urgency of ripening and the mercy of rest.

Thig crioch air an t-saoghal ach mairidh gaol is ceòl. Though the world may pass away, love and music endure—and in this moment, I seek both.

Breathe deeply now, drawing the autumn air into your belly. As you inhale, feel the cool dampness of the soil entering your lungs. The earth exhales through all growing things, and you draw that exhalation into yourself.

Your first emotion settles upon you like morning mist upon a loch: Wistful. This longing, this tender ache for something that slips away even as you reach for it. In the autumnal turning, this feeling finds its home. The trees are wistful for their summer verdancy now shed. The light is wistful for the long days it once held. And within you—ann an do chridhe—within your heart, there lives a wistfulness for summers past, for moments crystalline and perfect that cannot be held.

Sit with this ache. Do not turn from it. This wistfulness is not weakness—it is your soul recognizing that all things beautiful must transform. The earth herself is wistful as she prepares her bed of sleep, remembering the full green glory of growing season. Feel how the ground beneath you holds all the wistfulness of infinite autumns, all the longing of seeds that sleep through winter aching for spring. Your wistfulness connects you to the deep, grieving, patient love of the world itself.

Now, layered beneath this wistfulness, breathe in your second emotion: Determined. Fierce, steady, unshakeable. Determination is the backbone of transformation. Even as the leaves fall and the light fades, there is a resolute power moving through all things. The root does not hesitate to dig deeper into winter earth. The seed does not waver in its commitment to dormancy. Bithidh mi làidir. I will be strong. I will persist.

These two emotions intertwine—the grief of letting go and the iron will to endure. They are not contradictory. They are the very truth of October. Within you flows both the melancholy of endings and the fierce determination to see those endings through to their purpose. The earth, in all her cycles, embodies this duality perfectly.

Now, imagine roots descending from the base of your spine, spiraling downward through layers of soil, through loam and clay, through the dark humus where a thousand autumns have composted into richness. Feel these roots moving deeper, seeking the steady pulse of the earth's ancient heart.

A Mhàthair na Talmhainn, receive my wistfulness. Transform it into water that feeds deeper knowing. Receive my determination. Transform it into the mineral strength that sustains all living things.

See yourself as a tree in late autumn. Your branches are half-bare, the remaining leaves clinging with wistful tenacity—but your roots! Your roots are gathering power, drawing up the nourishment of the deep earth. Your determination is not in your crown reaching toward a sky that grows dimmer; your determination is in your roots diving into the darkness, knowing that this darkness is fertile, purposeful, alive with possibility.

Gu soilleir becomes your refrain now—toward clarity. Through the mist of wistfulness and the shadow of determination, see how both serve the greater wisdom. Both emotions are teachers. Both are essential. The wistfulness teaches you that attachment to what has been is natural and good, even as it must transform. The determination teaches you that change, while bittersweet, is never meaningless—it is always purposeful, always leading somewhere necessary.

Feel the earth's own wistfulness and determination flowing through the roots of your being. You are not separate from this dance. You are this dance.

Take a moment to contemplate:

What am I willing to release with full heart, knowing that my roots grow deeper even as my branches become bare? How might my wistfulness for what has been actually strengthen my determination for what must come next?

Sit with these questions without forcing answers. Let them settle into your bones like autumn settling into the land.

Go raibh maith agat, a Mhàthair na Talmhainn. Thank you, Mother of the Earth, for this turning, this teaching.

Beannachd do mo chridhe. Blessing upon my heart.

Beannachd do mo chosa. Blessing upon my feet.

Beannachd do mo ghnàth-obair. Blessing upon my way.

I return now, my roots nourished, my determination kindled, my wistfulness integrated as wisdom. The October earth holds me still. Gu sìth. In peace, I rise.

Thig crioch air an t-saoghal ach mairidh gaol is ceòl.