Maybon: A name for the autumnal equinox, also known as the Second Harvest Festival, Festival of Dionysus, Wine Harvest, Cornucopia, Feast of Avalon, etc. The first Thanksgiving was held on or near this date, and it is from these early harvest festivals that the modern Thanksgiving feasts developed. 

At this time of equal day and night, we give thanks for the harvest that will sustain us through the dark winter months. This is the season for gratitude and for giving back to the Earth; for continuing the cycle by giving freely. [1]

It is the second day of Maybon. The dawn is quick and fresh and alive. The call to readiness was felt yesterday in a swift shift of focus. Lone geese were flying even by night trying to align with their V heading south. We are staying. We are not moving—for once. Instead we get to sit still in the seasonal swirl, as ready as we have ever been for this present moment.

I’ve grown so accustomed to a traveling life that when some stability in form arises I feel like a landlubber. The same beehive excitement of “preparing for” arises in me like everyone else and yet it has been quelled by a slight pause before moving into our new home for the winter.

The irony is I get to watch this fall in the wild unrefined from the elements with a weird strain in my hip that realigns my mind every time I roll out of the tent.

Our camp spot is absolutely gorgeous! We are nestled at the foot of the rockies beside the Yellowstone River as it meanders through Paradise Valley. Cows parade up and down the fence, the younger ones pausing to watch camp life unfold over the fence. Robins collect the crumbs of our yesterday and what the soft earth yields. We have had some rain and some sun so everything is happy.

The Duggan’s ranch boarder collie—free roaming and astute, greets us briefly before resuming his run of the property. A horse neighs as he’s saddled-up for a trek and all around, tiny bright yellow breasted birds bustle in the autumnal trees.  If we were in a house I would be asleep and miss all this. “Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me.” Henry David Thoreau said.

I’ve adapted finally to not wearing socks. A life time of being afraid of cold feet has sheltered me from being foot free with fabulous circulation. I’m now walking around on the frosted grass in flip flops and a smile. Legs bare to the awareness of the breeze and the warmth of my interior state. My writing desk sits starkly in the open under Big Sky, Montana with my back to the changing leaves and rustling wind. I am enveloped by bird song and my heart sings.

Light is streaking the foothills and revealing the magnitude of the mountains. The sheep dog sits on the ridge and and surveys his boarders as trees illuminate and emerge from the undefined. The more I look the more differentiation emerges and I am aware I need to be clear with whom I am looking and what I want to see. No idle wish must escape me for a benevolent universe—exactly as it is—is all I desire to behold.

Preferences for color, variety and clouds in my time lapse capture harness’ false hope and misery—so I accept the “low power” indicator of picking between illusions for happiness and retire myself to watching the world go by without my camera.

I notice the tent once again holds some allure as the rising sun seems to shift the cool shadow into awareness. Chris curled-up cuddle snug tempts my mind. Yet I catch the trail of contracted thinking and happily move forward devoted to expanding into the day.

I Light the fire, there is nothing like the smell of imminent camp coffee, even for this tea drinker.

~ Sarah St.Claire

Read: Maybon II

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