Aligning with the seasons, but reverse it.

autumn adaptation

Greetings! The Ancestral Homekeeper is a weekly newsletter dedicated to asking questions about what it means to live slowly and simply in our modern era. I’m Kristina, and I believe that the way we shape our lives at home will be reflected in our society at large. By blending the wisdom of our ancestors with contemporary thoughts on mental health, self nurturing, and social justice, we can find the path to changing our world. New letter is out every Sunday!

The dark creeps earlier each evening, and the sounds of the crickets wane. Everything in the garden is turning positively crispy and the pumpkins are showing their orange faces beneath verdant hats. I gather up some green tomatoes that have no chance of ripening in time — this is the only time of year where I indulge in fried green tomatoes with abandon. (A lemony garlicky aioli is a must.) I harvest the last of the eggplants for a final ratatouille and being thinking about butternut squash pastas in cream sauces heavily flecked with sage.

For many who closely track the shift in the seasons, autumn is a time of great exhalation. The baking heat of summer turns soft and golden, the air noticeably chills with the progression of the evening, and some are lucky enough to be graced with rain. This shift can be mirrored in our bodies, which might feel like a slowing down of sorts — a desire to cozy up and read books while rust-colored leaves drift to the ground outside.

In the slow and simple living world, we frequently talk about getting to slow down in autumn, after the great racing around that defines much of summer. The back-to-school frenzy has exhausted itself, and we look forward to relaxing with tea and books, candles and soft blankets, spiced apple cake and gently whipped cream.

Yes. Yes to all of this! I am not immune to the deep pleasures of sweet warm lattes and all things hygge. And while I always prioritize the importance of rest and slowing down, autumn is actually one of my most fertile times. This is the time of year when I feel most fully alive, when my energy skyrockets, and my creativity absolutely explodes. The ideas are being channeled faster than I can write them down. Cleaning comes easier. Sleep is deeply restorative and I wake earlier and earlier, eager to enjoy hours of darkness to myself. I have begun filming again, after a long hiatus. And just this week, I have embarked on a new venture that I can’t wait to share with all of you in the coming weeks.

So why this surge of energy come fall? I think there are several reasons for this. Autumn is the traditional season of harvest, when everyone in the village used to make their last preparations for winter. The last of the garlic wants to be braided to cure, the wood should get split and stacked, and the cabbages and carrots need to be nestled into their places in the root cellar. While this can certainly be the current slate of events for modern day homesteaders, most of us are generationally divorced from these requirements. The grocery store sells everything we need in the way of food, and most of us have gas or electric heating in our homes. We simply don’t need to prepare for winter in the same ways our ancestors did. What do we lose when our survival doesn’t, in some way, depend on the collective work of the village to bring in the harvest? Perhaps what we have gained in convenience, we have given up in community interdependence and connection.

I will venture that there is a second reason I feel this deep wellspring of energy in these cooler months. I currently live in California, the land of sunshine, drought, and wildfires. Summers here can be achingly dry, with a brilliant heat that bakes everything to a tawny brass. My ancestors hailed from Norway, Scotland, Ireland, Germany, Russia, England, and Wales. These are Northern places. These are places that see deep snow in the winter, and gentle sun in the summer. They have green forests made lush with summer rain. My body remembers this.

My freckled skin turns tomato-red after 15 unprotected minutes in the UV rays of California, and my lungs feel like they can’t fully inflate in the low humidity. But when that cool fall air rushes in, then I can finally bask in the gentleness of the light again. My body simply wasn’t made to withstand weeks on end of hundred degree temperatures.

My body remembers the snow and cold. It was built to thrive, to work in the waning light and squirrel away the mushrooms and the berries and the grain. I take extraordinary delight in traditional harvest festivals and Christmas and Yule. Even in January, I am happiest when writing and baking. I am utterly productive in these months in a way that is deeply aligned with my soul.

It isn’t until March dawns that the anxiety tiptoes in. The beginning of Daylight Savings Time is the ultimate herald of a more stressful period, when we in California take stock of our rain we’ve received and calculate if it will be enough to last us. When we predict the intensity of the coming fire season. When we rush to get the peppers and tomatoes planted so that we can at least eat well during the sweltering months to come.

Those of you with seasonal depression can rejoice in the longer days, but there is a smaller percentage of us who feel that in reverse. The shorter days of autumn bring us deep joy, with the twinkling lights of candles and holiday decorations acting as our perfect light.

Many folks feel a connection to the seasons in ways that more closely mirror what is happening in nature. Spring is fertile, Summer is ripe and joyous, Fall is winding down, Winter is quiet and still. This is a perfectly wonderful alignment, and a part of me is perhaps a bit envious that this is your lot.

But in my deep ancestral knowing, I am aware that I am also seasonally aligned. I have the blood of my Northern ancestors coursing through me, and their ethics of hard work and community and productivity as a means to thrive in the harshest of climates. Their adaptability is my birthright, passed down like my green eyes and auburn hair, that gives me the ability to thrive in less than ideal conditions.

I love that little reminder that’s beep bopping around social media for a while, that if you just go back five generations, you have 128 great-grandparents? Well, if you go back eight generations, that number skyrockets to over a thousand. At nine, you’ve got over two thousand. And they all had to live long enough to procreate so that one day, you could be born. They had to have been adaptable. They had to innovate, to find ways around challenges. And they have given that gift to you — it’s your birthright as well.

So my body has sought out the gentlest time of year to be productive, and the harshest time of year to allow for extended languid rest. My summers are lazy and my winters are filled with growth and change. And autumn is the glorious in-between when I can cozy up with tea and blankets, but also my notebook so that I can fire off a thousand words before daybreak.

There is no perfect. Whatever season you most align with is where you are meant to be. You are the product of your millions of ancestors, and they all fought for you to live. You are perfect, just the way you are.