The rain has returned. This week, the weather has changed and the first of the winter storms has blown in, bringing the first real rain since last May.
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Here in Northern California where I live, in this rainy area of western Sonoma County, the difference between the wet season and the dry season is extreme. There are many parts of the world where seasons change dramatically, but here the shift from dry to wet is so abrupt, like a curtain falling and rising on a whole new scene. One minute, we’re in scarcity mode, guarding every drop of water, anxiously monitoring the level in our tanks, rationing our showers and keeping our go-bags packed in case of fire, and the next, there’s water falling from the sky, pooling in the stream beds, dripping off the redwood needles and replenishing the springs. It feels like redemption.
On the other side of the year, when we shift from wet to dry, the rains gradually taper off. They come intermittently in April, when the hills are green and lush from the winter moisture and the wildflowers are all abloom. Then they taper off. We might get a rain or two in May, but generally by June the rains are over. The green hills gradually turn golden, then brown. We begin to worry about summer fires.
Fire danger grows throughout the summer, as the land and the vegetation dries out and the heat increases. In those years when the rains come late or not at all, the danger reaches its peak in the fall, when dry, dry grasslands and desiccated forests are whipped by autumn winds that blow from inland out to sea, carrying even hotter and drier air with them. That is why early rain is such a blessing. The moist wind in the trees is a sigh of relief, the smell of wet earth the scent of reprieve. From one day to the next, we move from fear and scarcity into abundance and blessing.
In ancient times, in Mediterranean lands that have a similar climate, autumn was celebrated with rituals of renewal. The Greeks celebrated the Mysteries of Demeter, telling the story of her daughter Kore’s abduction into the Underworld, her transformation into Persephone, Queen of the Dead, and her joyful return. When I was a child, I learned the story as a metaphor for spring coming after winter, but in ancient Greece, the Greater Mysteries were performed in the fall, when life and hope return with the autumn rains.
Here in the United States, we are in a time of loss and suffering. So much if what we counted on, our rights, our common values, even a shared belief in reality itself are withering like old grass in a drought. Maybe we need some Rite of Renewal we could celebrate, or something older, some offering to the chthonic forces classicist Jane Ellen Harrison termed “The Gods of Sending-Away.” Instead of sacrificing a pig or a bull to such gods, we could bundle up our grievances, our apathy, our fears, frustrations, and resentments, and toss them into some chasm where they could rot into fertility, leaving us cleansed and ready for regeneration.
I take the rain’s return as a sign of hope. Weather can suddenly change. Just as disaster can come swiftly, so can renewal. We could turn from this season of anxiety and grim hate to a world renewed by compassion and care. In this season of revitalization, we could sow the seeds of justice, and harvest fruits that could be shared by all.
If you’d like to join me to explore the myth of Demeter and Persephone, and how it might help us navigate through these challenging times, I am launching a 3 session course on Stories for Transformation. It starts this Friday, October 3, at 5:30 pm Pacific Time, online, recorded for later viewing, ASL interpreted. More information and registration here.)
This post has been syndicated from Starhawk’s Substack, where it was published under this address.