September 22, 2025 • 25 mins
Join us as we embrace the magic of the autumnal equinox, celebrating September's unique duality through the power of poetry and rituals. Drawing inspiration from the evocative work of Alix Klingenberg, we explore how this transitional time invites us to balance urgency with ease and preparation with presence. Through traditions and the wonders of the season, we honor change and navigate our paths toward peace.
Throughout the episode we highlight Alix Klingenberg's "Quietly Wild," a poetic exploration resonating with nature's cycles and the themes of ecology and social justice. This episode is a heartfelt celebration of change, growth, and the interconnectedness of earth and self.
This week’s episode was written and recorded in New York on the land of the Lenapee tribes. This week’s episode was recorded in Massachusetts on the native lands of the Wabanaki Confederacy, Pennacook, Massa-adchu-es-et (Massachusett), and Pawtucket people
This episode was written, edited, and produced by Jonathan Zautner and Dori Robinson.
To learn more about our podcast and episodes, please visit treespeechpodcast.com and consider supporting us through our Patreon - every contribution supports our production, and we’ll be giving gifts of gratitude to patrons of all levels. Please also consider passing the word, and rate and review us wherever you listen to podcasts. Every kind word helps.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:06):
Stay here with me, September. September is the turning point,
the tilt of the earth on her tiptoes, the slow drift toward
darkness and rest and night, butnot quite yet.
You hold the world in place witha finger to your lips, the tip
of a chin, the slight gap between your teeth, the moment
(00:30):
before the inevitable kiss, magnetic, full and heavy with
almosts. Stay here with me, September.
Stay poised on the edge of satisfaction, the brilliant
agony of almost falling, the pain of beauty too precarious to
last. The pain of beauty too
(01:02):
precarious to last. What a beautiful, poignant way
to express how September truly feels.
My name is Dory Robinson and this is tree speech.
In today's episode, we will celebrate and explore the
autumnal equinox with our own patchwork quilt of rituals,
(01:23):
performances and poetry. And I'm Jonathan Zoutner.
And Speaking of poetry, the poemthat was read as the intro to
this episode was written and read by Alex Klingenberg, whose
new book of poems, photographs and rituals to mark the seasons
was released this. Past week.
(01:45):
Titled Quietly Wild, the book serves as the theme of our own
autumnal commemoration here, where images of the natural
world become doorways into balance and belonging, and we
will hear Alex read more poems throughout the episode.
Hi Jonathan, happy autumnal equinox.
(02:07):
Hi Dory. It's my favorite time of year
and I'm so excited for this month.
Me too. It is also my favorite time of
year. September carries a strange
magic. The forest grows quieter, birds
softer, evenings cooler. And yet, beneath that hush,
(02:27):
there's an unseen urgency. Roots deepen, squirrels scatter,
winds sharpen. It's a month balanced on the
edge, stillness on the surface, preparation underneath.
September is a season of contrasts, slowness and speed,
silence and song, letting go andgathering in.
(02:52):
The Equinox asks us to hold bothat once, to listen for the pulse
of this liminal time, both in nature as well as our own
everyday lives. We see this shift into the next
season reflected everywhere. For farmers, this is the time to
harvest, when fields that once rang with labor now yield their
(03:16):
abundance in kitchens, where jars of preserves and pickled
goods and baskets of apples stand beside steaming mugs of
tea. For students and teachers, we
return to classrooms, a new rhythm of learning and growing
about to begin. For spiritual communities,
September often holds holidays of reflection and renewal across
(03:40):
cultures and landscapes. We feel this pull of duality,
the work of gathering and preparing, as well as the
invitation to pause, breathe, and honor the moment.
(04:01):
There's a lot of noise in our world right now.
Voices rising louder and louder in an effort to be heard, while
images and information rush toward us at a pace faster than
we can truly comprehend. It is easy to lose our bearings.
Only by embracing the quiet, thestill, the wild, the bear,
(04:22):
simplicity and beauty of our natural world can we find our
true center of gravity. This is where our intuitive
compass lives, the one that can guide us.
Forward both. Individually and collectively,
toward a place of greater peace.As we stand at this threshold of
(04:43):
light and dark, pulled between stillness and speed, the equinox
arrives as an invitation to slowdown, to notice the patterns of
change unfolding around us, and to ask ourselves how we might
carry both urgency and ease, preparation and presence.
(05:05):
This season also asks us to notice the quiet abundance that
is still here, the last fresh produce at the farmers market,
the vibrant orange and red leaves turning before our eyes,
and to honor the wildness that insists on change.
Ready or not, autumn has come. In this spirit, today's episode
(05:30):
offers reflections on this time of transition, from poetry to
seasonal commemoration to cucumbers.
And we'll return again and againto the equinox itself, a hinge
that links these voices, reminding us how nature's
balance can help us navigate ourown.
(05:59):
Autumn Ivy, I swear to you, everything can seem terrible and
lonely and horribly mundane. And then you see the autumn Ivy
curving in great rainbows aroundthe cemetery wall, the wild
turkeys crossing the highway, the leaves changing tones only
(06:20):
in the upper reaches of the branches, and suddenly you are
well again. The sadness is red and yellow
and green and orange. The sadness is a briefly passing
wind that holds the trees in itselysian embrace, allowing them
to let go, let everything go in a shower of beautiful release.
(06:55):
The more I learn about trees andthe many ways we are connected
to nature, the more intrigued I am about Earth based rituals.
This curiosity led me to learn about the Nut Moon for the
Cherokee Nation. The calendar is marked by the
moon in September. It is the Nut Moon which invites
(07:17):
people to gather, prepare for the colder months, and to give
thanks. For the Cherokee people, time is
not measured in the 12 months, but rather by the rhythm of 13
moons. Each moon marks not only a
season of work, but a season of spirit celebrated with ceremony,
(07:39):
a weaving together of community,gratitude and balance.
To the Cherokee and other First Nation people, the number 13 is
sacred and as compared to the backs of turtles, 13 large
scales at the Center for the 13 moon cycles and 28 smaller ones
(08:00):
around the edge, indicating the days of the lunar month.
In this way, the turtle became both symbol and teacher, a
reminder that the Earth itself carries wisdom in its patterns.
In September, the Nut Moon is what celebrates the transition
into autumn. It's a season of storing what
(08:22):
has been gathered and ripened, specifically walnuts, Hickory,
chestnuts and corn. It is a time of feasting on
breads baked from the gifts of the forest.
This moon speaks to more than harvest.
It is also about the delicate balance between preparation and
presence. We see it in the squirrels
(08:45):
leaping from branch to branch with cheeks full of acorns,
reminding us that survival is instinct, but also rhythm,
timing and trust. We live in a world that often
pushes us to hoard and to hurry.How can we prepare without
rushing past this moment? How do we put aside what we'll
(09:07):
need for winter while still savouring the sweetness of the
season we're in? Maybe a bridge between
preparation and planning is gratitude and mindfulness in the
moment. Maybe we can take a quick moment
to give thanks to trust that preparation and presence can
coexist. Autumn's Keeper.
(09:34):
The path is a river of pine cones, red and ancient is the
squirrel's tail, hushed as a night warden making her rounds.
The red fox is waiting for you to remember.
This is not a dream, not anymore.
There is a circle of Pines, and you at the center, shining in
your russet cloak, brass bucklesat the neck.
(09:57):
You came here a mother, and lefta hunter emblazoned with a
Crimson purpose to light the Chalice of Change.
When we. Think of quietly wild.
(10:17):
We often focus on the personal and internal ways we mark this
season. But quietly, wild actions can
also have ripples that extend far beyond the self, touching
the wider world. In this spirit, we honor Robert
Redford, a man who, like the foxin Alex's poem, carried with him
(10:41):
a quiet power and purpose. Steady yet revolutionary.
As an actor, director, and activist, Redford's impact on
the world was not only shaped bythe roles he played, but by the
stories he helped create, the lands he protected, and the
voices he nurtured. Redford's legacy spanned 7
(11:05):
decades, marked by films that transcended the screen,
including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Sting, and
Ordinary People. His portrayal of Sundance, the
reluctant outlaw, became a symbol of freedom and
independence, a spirit that he later imbued in the creation of
the Sundance Institute and the Sundance Film Festival.
(11:29):
These spaces, built with care and vision, allowed voices from
all walks of life to rise, flourish, and change the
landscape of storytelling forever.
For me, Redford's legacy touchedme in a personal way.
As I continued to work and Co develop this podcast, I was
(11:51):
honored to receive a scholarshipto attend an audio storytelling
intensive at the Sundance Institute.
That experience, a gift from thevery hands that built a platform
for independent voices, fundamentally changed the way I
approach storytelling. In 1969, Robert Redford chose to
(12:11):
protect the land below Mount Tympanogos, rejecting the
temptation to allow it to becomeyet another expensive
development. Instead, he built Sundance
Resort, rooted in his commitmentto conservation and the natural
world. The first cabin there was
constructed around a tree already standing tall, and that
(12:35):
tree's enduring presence inspired the Tree Room, a space
and restaurant where people gathered to reflect and remember
what is worth protecting. Redford's legacy is like that
tree, deeply rooted, ever growing and never forgotten.
Through the Sundance Institute, he lit the chalice of change for
(12:58):
so many artists, including myself, who carry forward the
belief that art has the power totransform, that stories matter,
and that the world must be reimagined.
We would also like to take a moment to give more information
about Alex Klingenberg, whose voice in poetry is featured in
(13:19):
today's episode. Alex.
Is a best selling indie author who leads spiritual and creative
writing workshops and whose workexplores the intersections of
wonder, ecology, and creative practice.
She is the author of several poetry collections.
With a passion for social justice, anti racism,
(13:40):
intersectional feminism, community and the natural world,
Alex writes and teaches from a place of spiritual and social
transformation. I had the privilege of meeting
Alex and since then I have been reading her work and have been
struck by the ways she weaves together reflections about
(14:01):
modern life right alongside the rhythms of nature.
We will include links to Alex's website, socials and works in
the show notes and we hope you take a moment to explore them.
I have been savouring Quietly Wild, her new book.
I especially love that Alex dedicates the book to the planet
(14:22):
Earth and especially the trees, which feels so fitting as we
honour Robert Redford and all those whose work honours the
wild of this season. Cucumber season.
The wind is a whistling kettle at the window, a kind of alarm
(14:45):
to signal the end of summer days.
The birds are quieter and more busy doing their bird business
between the neighbors rooftops. I'm not sure what they do for
work, the neighbors or the birds, but I wonder if they
watch me in the morning, barefoot and wearing only a
T-shirt, wandering out to check on my garden.
(15:05):
The cucumbers are round this year, perfectly round spheres,
like they decided to come out aswomen after years of playing men
in grocery stores. I wash one off, removing their
sharp spines that keep the deer from eating them all, and cut
them into phases of the moon, sprinkle them with sea salt and
see if they taste as feminine asthey look.
(15:27):
They taste sweet and warm, like sun ripened cucumbers do, like
women do when they have enough time, when they can make
themselves into any shape that pleases them.
Autumn has always felt like a threshold to me.
The air sharpens, the light softens, and each evening the
(15:49):
sun slips away a little earlier,a reminder that time is always
in motion. Autumn is both urgency and
release, the call to begin anew while also the invitation to
slow down. It is a season that asks us to
hold contradictions. At the farmers market this past
(16:11):
week, I noticed cucumbers still piled high, crisp and green.
They belong to summer in our minds.
Cool, refreshing, a relief from heat.
It has the cousin to the pumpkinin this.
In between season. They linger, carrying summer's
brightness into fall. This abundance is not
(16:34):
accidental. It is the season of
preservation. Cucumbers become Pickles,
transformed with vinegar and spice, sealed into jars for
winter. And in that transformation I see
a kind of wisdom that change does not mean loss.
It can mean continuity, memory and even resilience.
(16:57):
When I slice a cucumber, I too notice the tiny.
Moons I. See inside pale crescents in
circles echoing the phases of the lunar cycle.
Cucumbers made almost. Entirely of water are joined to
the same rhythm, pulled into themoon's orbit in quiet ways.
Together, they remind me of the deep ties between body, earth,
(17:21):
and sky, like the cucumbers turned to pickle.
The season knows how to change form without losing essence.
And at the heart of it all lies autonomy, the right to choose
how and when to transform, to claim one's own timing, one's
(17:41):
own way of preservation, one's own way of renewal.
Earthkin. She was Earthkin, a forest
Walker tuned into the fox den and the Sparrow nest.
(18:01):
She talked to the Maple tree on the corner by the bookstore,
whispered secrets into the Stonybark, and it spoke to her in
hushed leaves of the coming autumn, of letting go of small
deaths. She felt herself shedding
layers, preparing for her own kind of fall.
(18:27):
Out in the forest, this is the season when the ground begins to
soften under a quilt of fallen leaves.
They are not swept away, not tidied or discarded.
Instead, they stay. They gather, curl, darken, and
slowly begin the work of becoming something else.
(18:51):
They shelter tiny lives through the winter.
They break down. And in this transformation, they
create the rich soil that will nourish spring.
We too are made of seasons. Just as the forest composts, so
do we. The hurts we've carried, the
(19:11):
disappointments we've held, the thrills of anticipation, the
chapters that are ready to close, these can become
nutrients for what comes next. The alchemy is the same.
Patience, darkness, time, and trust.
It's one thing to talk about this alchemy and having patience
(19:35):
and time, but it's another thingentirely to access that feeling
of trust in your breath and body.
So I invite you now to a short meditation where together we
will hold the idea of transitions and transformations.
(19:56):
Take a moment to come to stillness.
Maybe you want to close your eyes or look out at something
beautiful, a tree, a plant, a picture.
However you can arrive, arrive. Let's take in a deep breath
together and let it out again. In and out.
(20:30):
One more time, and as you inhaleand exhale, bring to mind one
thing from this year that you'd like to release.
A weight, a worry, a disappointment, Something you
have carried. Name it softly to yourself.
Give it a word. Let that word be simple.
(20:53):
Hold that image in your hands asif you hold a leaf.
Feel its edges, Feel its weight.Breathe into it once more.
Now imagine tenderly placing that leaf down on warm, dark
soil. See yourself layering it with
(21:15):
care. It is not being thrown away.
It is being offered. You place it with thanks for
what it taught you, and with theclear intention that the earth
will transform it. Listen.
There is a small, busy orchestrabeneath the ground, the slow,
(21:36):
unhurried work of microbes and mycelium, of worms and beetles.
They take the hard edges of whatwe no longer need and make them
soft and rich. They do not hurry or judge the
work, they simply turn it into nourishment.
(21:56):
Consider now what else needs a similar turning, A careful,
patient transformation rather than a frantic fixing.
Perhaps it is an old habit, a harsh word, a grief you keep
polishing like glass. Let the image of the leaf remind
(22:17):
you that some work happens best in darkness, some healing is
quiet and slow now. Feel your own roots, sends them
sinking through floorboards, through soil, rooting into the
earth like your favorite tree. Feel your spine like a trunk,
(22:43):
steady and alive. Let your breath move the
branches. One more breath, slow and full
in for gathering, out, for releasing.
When you are ready, open your eyes, place your hand on your
(23:05):
heart, and know that what you have offered will feed you in
time. The leaves at your feet, the rot
in the soil, the small creaturesthat do the steady work are all
a reminder that life's endings are often the beginning of
nourishment. As Alex writes, when you connect
(23:29):
with the earth, you connect withthe infinite parts of yourself.
It is the quietly wild work of becoming.
To all of our listeners, we wishyou an effortless and enjoyable
transition into this equinox, and we will end this episode
(23:52):
with one more of Alex's poems from her book, Quietly Wild,
Quietly Wild. Let's reject the productivity
culture that leaves our souls exhausted.
It's time to rewild and reconnect with our internal
rhythms, to honor our animal natures so that we might see
(24:16):
ourselves with clarity. Beings of the Earth made from
the stars. This week's episode was written
and recorded in New York on the lands of the Lenape tribes, as
(24:37):
well as in Massachusetts on the native lands of the Wabanaki
Confederacy, Pennacook, Massachusetts, and Pawtucket
people. This episode was written,
edited, and produced by JonathanZautner and Dory Robinson.
To learn more about our podcast and episodes, please visit
treespeechpodcast.com and consider supporting us through
(25:01):
our Patreon. Every contribution supports our
production. Please also consider passing the
word and rate and review us on Apple Podcasts.
Every kind word helps. Happy Equinox.
Together, may we carry balance, presence, and peace into the
season. Thank you for listening to Tree
(25:22):
Speech today.
Stay here with me, September. September is the turning point,
the tilt of the earth on her tiptoes, the slow drift toward
darkness and rest and night, butnot quite yet.
You hold the world in place witha finger to your lips, the tip
of a chin, the slight gap between your teeth, the moment
(00:30):
before the inevitable kiss, magnetic, full and heavy with
almosts. Stay here with me, September.
Stay poised on the edge of satisfaction, the brilliant
agony of almost falling, the pain of beauty too precarious to
last. The pain of beauty too
(01:02):
precarious to last. What a beautiful, poignant way
to express how September truly feels.
My name is Dory Robinson and this is tree speech.
In today's episode, we will celebrate and explore the
autumnal equinox with our own patchwork quilt of rituals,
(01:23):
performances and poetry. And I'm Jonathan Zoutner.
And Speaking of poetry, the poemthat was read as the intro to
this episode was written and read by Alex Klingenberg, whose
new book of poems, photographs and rituals to mark the seasons
was released this. Past week.
(01:45):
Titled Quietly Wild, the book serves as the theme of our own
autumnal commemoration here, where images of the natural
world become doorways into balance and belonging, and we
will hear Alex read more poems throughout the episode.
Hi Jonathan, happy autumnal equinox.
(02:07):
Hi Dory. It's my favorite time of year
and I'm so excited for this month.
Me too. It is also my favorite time of
year. September carries a strange
magic. The forest grows quieter, birds
softer, evenings cooler. And yet, beneath that hush,
(02:27):
there's an unseen urgency. Roots deepen, squirrels scatter,
winds sharpen. It's a month balanced on the
edge, stillness on the surface, preparation underneath.
September is a season of contrasts, slowness and speed,
silence and song, letting go andgathering in.
(02:52):
The Equinox asks us to hold bothat once, to listen for the pulse
of this liminal time, both in nature as well as our own
everyday lives. We see this shift into the next
season reflected everywhere. For farmers, this is the time to
harvest, when fields that once rang with labor now yield their
(03:16):
abundance in kitchens, where jars of preserves and pickled
goods and baskets of apples stand beside steaming mugs of
tea. For students and teachers, we
return to classrooms, a new rhythm of learning and growing
about to begin. For spiritual communities,
September often holds holidays of reflection and renewal across
(03:40):
cultures and landscapes. We feel this pull of duality,
the work of gathering and preparing, as well as the
invitation to pause, breathe, and honor the moment.
(04:01):
There's a lot of noise in our world right now.
Voices rising louder and louder in an effort to be heard, while
images and information rush toward us at a pace faster than
we can truly comprehend. It is easy to lose our bearings.
Only by embracing the quiet, thestill, the wild, the bear,
(04:22):
simplicity and beauty of our natural world can we find our
true center of gravity. This is where our intuitive
compass lives, the one that can guide us.
Forward both. Individually and collectively,
toward a place of greater peace.As we stand at this threshold of
(04:43):
light and dark, pulled between stillness and speed, the equinox
arrives as an invitation to slowdown, to notice the patterns of
change unfolding around us, and to ask ourselves how we might
carry both urgency and ease, preparation and presence.
(05:05):
This season also asks us to notice the quiet abundance that
is still here, the last fresh produce at the farmers market,
the vibrant orange and red leaves turning before our eyes,
and to honor the wildness that insists on change.
Ready or not, autumn has come. In this spirit, today's episode
(05:30):
offers reflections on this time of transition, from poetry to
seasonal commemoration to cucumbers.
And we'll return again and againto the equinox itself, a hinge
that links these voices, reminding us how nature's
balance can help us navigate ourown.
(05:59):
Autumn Ivy, I swear to you, everything can seem terrible and
lonely and horribly mundane. And then you see the autumn Ivy
curving in great rainbows aroundthe cemetery wall, the wild
turkeys crossing the highway, the leaves changing tones only
(06:20):
in the upper reaches of the branches, and suddenly you are
well again. The sadness is red and yellow
and green and orange. The sadness is a briefly passing
wind that holds the trees in itselysian embrace, allowing them
to let go, let everything go in a shower of beautiful release.
(06:55):
The more I learn about trees andthe many ways we are connected
to nature, the more intrigued I am about Earth based rituals.
This curiosity led me to learn about the Nut Moon for the
Cherokee Nation. The calendar is marked by the
moon in September. It is the Nut Moon which invites
(07:17):
people to gather, prepare for the colder months, and to give
thanks. For the Cherokee people, time is
not measured in the 12 months, but rather by the rhythm of 13
moons. Each moon marks not only a
season of work, but a season of spirit celebrated with ceremony,
(07:39):
a weaving together of community,gratitude and balance.
To the Cherokee and other First Nation people, the number 13 is
sacred and as compared to the backs of turtles, 13 large
scales at the Center for the 13 moon cycles and 28 smaller ones
(08:00):
around the edge, indicating the days of the lunar month.
In this way, the turtle became both symbol and teacher, a
reminder that the Earth itself carries wisdom in its patterns.
In September, the Nut Moon is what celebrates the transition
into autumn. It's a season of storing what
(08:22):
has been gathered and ripened, specifically walnuts, Hickory,
chestnuts and corn. It is a time of feasting on
breads baked from the gifts of the forest.
This moon speaks to more than harvest.
It is also about the delicate balance between preparation and
presence. We see it in the squirrels
(08:45):
leaping from branch to branch with cheeks full of acorns,
reminding us that survival is instinct, but also rhythm,
timing and trust. We live in a world that often
pushes us to hoard and to hurry.How can we prepare without
rushing past this moment? How do we put aside what we'll
(09:07):
need for winter while still savouring the sweetness of the
season we're in? Maybe a bridge between
preparation and planning is gratitude and mindfulness in the
moment. Maybe we can take a quick moment
to give thanks to trust that preparation and presence can
coexist. Autumn's Keeper.
(09:34):
The path is a river of pine cones, red and ancient is the
squirrel's tail, hushed as a night warden making her rounds.
The red fox is waiting for you to remember.
This is not a dream, not anymore.
There is a circle of Pines, and you at the center, shining in
your russet cloak, brass bucklesat the neck.
(09:57):
You came here a mother, and lefta hunter emblazoned with a
Crimson purpose to light the Chalice of Change.
When we. Think of quietly wild.
(10:17):
We often focus on the personal and internal ways we mark this
season. But quietly, wild actions can
also have ripples that extend far beyond the self, touching
the wider world. In this spirit, we honor Robert
Redford, a man who, like the foxin Alex's poem, carried with him
(10:41):
a quiet power and purpose. Steady yet revolutionary.
As an actor, director, and activist, Redford's impact on
the world was not only shaped bythe roles he played, but by the
stories he helped create, the lands he protected, and the
voices he nurtured. Redford's legacy spanned 7
(11:05):
decades, marked by films that transcended the screen,
including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Sting, and
Ordinary People. His portrayal of Sundance, the
reluctant outlaw, became a symbol of freedom and
independence, a spirit that he later imbued in the creation of
the Sundance Institute and the Sundance Film Festival.
(11:29):
These spaces, built with care and vision, allowed voices from
all walks of life to rise, flourish, and change the
landscape of storytelling forever.
For me, Redford's legacy touchedme in a personal way.
As I continued to work and Co develop this podcast, I was
(11:51):
honored to receive a scholarshipto attend an audio storytelling
intensive at the Sundance Institute.
That experience, a gift from thevery hands that built a platform
for independent voices, fundamentally changed the way I
approach storytelling. In 1969, Robert Redford chose to
(12:11):
protect the land below Mount Tympanogos, rejecting the
temptation to allow it to becomeyet another expensive
development. Instead, he built Sundance
Resort, rooted in his commitmentto conservation and the natural
world. The first cabin there was
constructed around a tree already standing tall, and that
(12:35):
tree's enduring presence inspired the Tree Room, a space
and restaurant where people gathered to reflect and remember
what is worth protecting. Redford's legacy is like that
tree, deeply rooted, ever growing and never forgotten.
Through the Sundance Institute, he lit the chalice of change for
(12:58):
so many artists, including myself, who carry forward the
belief that art has the power totransform, that stories matter,
and that the world must be reimagined.
We would also like to take a moment to give more information
about Alex Klingenberg, whose voice in poetry is featured in
(13:19):
today's episode. Alex.
Is a best selling indie author who leads spiritual and creative
writing workshops and whose workexplores the intersections of
wonder, ecology, and creative practice.
She is the author of several poetry collections.
With a passion for social justice, anti racism,
(13:40):
intersectional feminism, community and the natural world,
Alex writes and teaches from a place of spiritual and social
transformation. I had the privilege of meeting
Alex and since then I have been reading her work and have been
struck by the ways she weaves together reflections about
(14:01):
modern life right alongside the rhythms of nature.
We will include links to Alex's website, socials and works in
the show notes and we hope you take a moment to explore them.
I have been savouring Quietly Wild, her new book.
I especially love that Alex dedicates the book to the planet
(14:22):
Earth and especially the trees, which feels so fitting as we
honour Robert Redford and all those whose work honours the
wild of this season. Cucumber season.
The wind is a whistling kettle at the window, a kind of alarm
(14:45):
to signal the end of summer days.
The birds are quieter and more busy doing their bird business
between the neighbors rooftops. I'm not sure what they do for
work, the neighbors or the birds, but I wonder if they
watch me in the morning, barefoot and wearing only a
T-shirt, wandering out to check on my garden.
(15:05):
The cucumbers are round this year, perfectly round spheres,
like they decided to come out aswomen after years of playing men
in grocery stores. I wash one off, removing their
sharp spines that keep the deer from eating them all, and cut
them into phases of the moon, sprinkle them with sea salt and
see if they taste as feminine asthey look.
(15:27):
They taste sweet and warm, like sun ripened cucumbers do, like
women do when they have enough time, when they can make
themselves into any shape that pleases them.
Autumn has always felt like a threshold to me.
The air sharpens, the light softens, and each evening the
(15:49):
sun slips away a little earlier,a reminder that time is always
in motion. Autumn is both urgency and
release, the call to begin anew while also the invitation to
slow down. It is a season that asks us to
hold contradictions. At the farmers market this past
(16:11):
week, I noticed cucumbers still piled high, crisp and green.
They belong to summer in our minds.
Cool, refreshing, a relief from heat.
It has the cousin to the pumpkinin this.
In between season. They linger, carrying summer's
brightness into fall. This abundance is not
(16:34):
accidental. It is the season of
preservation. Cucumbers become Pickles,
transformed with vinegar and spice, sealed into jars for
winter. And in that transformation I see
a kind of wisdom that change does not mean loss.
It can mean continuity, memory and even resilience.
(16:57):
When I slice a cucumber, I too notice the tiny.
Moons I. See inside pale crescents in
circles echoing the phases of the lunar cycle.
Cucumbers made almost. Entirely of water are joined to
the same rhythm, pulled into themoon's orbit in quiet ways.
Together, they remind me of the deep ties between body, earth,
(17:21):
and sky, like the cucumbers turned to pickle.
The season knows how to change form without losing essence.
And at the heart of it all lies autonomy, the right to choose
how and when to transform, to claim one's own timing, one's
(17:41):
own way of preservation, one's own way of renewal.
Earthkin. She was Earthkin, a forest
Walker tuned into the fox den and the Sparrow nest.
(18:01):
She talked to the Maple tree on the corner by the bookstore,
whispered secrets into the Stonybark, and it spoke to her in
hushed leaves of the coming autumn, of letting go of small
deaths. She felt herself shedding
layers, preparing for her own kind of fall.
(18:27):
Out in the forest, this is the season when the ground begins to
soften under a quilt of fallen leaves.
They are not swept away, not tidied or discarded.
Instead, they stay. They gather, curl, darken, and
slowly begin the work of becoming something else.
(18:51):
They shelter tiny lives through the winter.
They break down. And in this transformation, they
create the rich soil that will nourish spring.
We too are made of seasons. Just as the forest composts, so
do we. The hurts we've carried, the
(19:11):
disappointments we've held, the thrills of anticipation, the
chapters that are ready to close, these can become
nutrients for what comes next. The alchemy is the same.
Patience, darkness, time, and trust.
It's one thing to talk about this alchemy and having patience
(19:35):
and time, but it's another thingentirely to access that feeling
of trust in your breath and body.
So I invite you now to a short meditation where together we
will hold the idea of transitions and transformations.
(19:56):
Take a moment to come to stillness.
Maybe you want to close your eyes or look out at something
beautiful, a tree, a plant, a picture.
However you can arrive, arrive. Let's take in a deep breath
together and let it out again. In and out.
(20:30):
One more time, and as you inhaleand exhale, bring to mind one
thing from this year that you'd like to release.
A weight, a worry, a disappointment, Something you
have carried. Name it softly to yourself.
Give it a word. Let that word be simple.
(20:53):
Hold that image in your hands asif you hold a leaf.
Feel its edges, Feel its weight.Breathe into it once more.
Now imagine tenderly placing that leaf down on warm, dark
soil. See yourself layering it with
(21:15):
care. It is not being thrown away.
It is being offered. You place it with thanks for
what it taught you, and with theclear intention that the earth
will transform it. Listen.
There is a small, busy orchestrabeneath the ground, the slow,
(21:36):
unhurried work of microbes and mycelium, of worms and beetles.
They take the hard edges of whatwe no longer need and make them
soft and rich. They do not hurry or judge the
work, they simply turn it into nourishment.
(21:56):
Consider now what else needs a similar turning, A careful,
patient transformation rather than a frantic fixing.
Perhaps it is an old habit, a harsh word, a grief you keep
polishing like glass. Let the image of the leaf remind
(22:17):
you that some work happens best in darkness, some healing is
quiet and slow now. Feel your own roots, sends them
sinking through floorboards, through soil, rooting into the
earth like your favorite tree. Feel your spine like a trunk,
(22:43):
steady and alive. Let your breath move the
branches. One more breath, slow and full
in for gathering, out, for releasing.
When you are ready, open your eyes, place your hand on your
(23:05):
heart, and know that what you have offered will feed you in
time. The leaves at your feet, the rot
in the soil, the small creaturesthat do the steady work are all
a reminder that life's endings are often the beginning of
nourishment. As Alex writes, when you connect
(23:29):
with the earth, you connect withthe infinite parts of yourself.
It is the quietly wild work of becoming.
To all of our listeners, we wishyou an effortless and enjoyable
transition into this equinox, and we will end this episode
(23:52):
with one more of Alex's poems from her book, Quietly Wild,
Quietly Wild. Let's reject the productivity
culture that leaves our souls exhausted.
It's time to rewild and reconnect with our internal
rhythms, to honor our animal natures so that we might see
(24:16):
ourselves with clarity. Beings of the Earth made from
the stars. This week's episode was written
and recorded in New York on the lands of the Lenape tribes, as
(24:37):
well as in Massachusetts on the native lands of the Wabanaki
Confederacy, Pennacook, Massachusetts, and Pawtucket
people. This episode was written,
edited, and produced by JonathanZautner and Dory Robinson.
To learn more about our podcast and episodes, please visit
treespeechpodcast.com and consider supporting us through
(25:01):
our Patreon. Every contribution supports our
production. Please also consider passing the
word and rate and review us on Apple Podcasts.
Every kind word helps. Happy Equinox.
Together, may we carry balance, presence, and peace into the
season. Thank you for listening to Tree
(25:22):
Speech today.
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