This morning, at 1.04am, marked the Autumnal equinox. In the days leading up to this I’ve been considering how fortunate we are to have such rich and varied seasons. Each has its own magic, but I wonder if you have a favourite and, if so, which one?
For as far back as I can remember I’ve had a fascination for and love of nature; Mother Earth and Father Sky. I was thrilled to learn about oxbow lakes and volcano magma chambers, but it was studying the weather, particularly cloud formations, that captured my imagination.
As a child, growing up in Yorkshire, we regularly visited a tiny cottage high up on Kisdon Hill, part of the Pennine Way. Here we could see Brother Rain racing towards us, even when he was several miles away. I watched Grandfather Sun hurling fierce pink and orange splattering across the sky before disappearing in an instant, thus rendering me unable to see the path ahead, unless Grandmother Moon showed me the way.
My mind reaches back towards my memories of Autumn…. It reminds me of flying kites on the open moors, climbing trees and playing hide and seek in the woods near my grandparent’s home. Kicking the leaves in the air as I walked our dog down the snicket towards the park. My bulging pockets filled with shiny, smooth horse chestnuts ready to put on strings to play conkers with my brother. The smell of bread toasting on our open fire or, better yet, the crackle of the garden bonfire as my dad prepared for winter, the heat of the flames dancing up against the cold night air, whilst my breath reached out in front of me. The smell of the fire lingering in my hair and clothes long after I’d returned home to rest. Prince Autumn must be the best.
As King Winter took command of the world, eerie and ominous, the skeleton frame of the trees bent and swayed in the rain as I stared out of my bedroom window. Now the ground was too hard to dig, the flowers gone and the birds silent. The whizz of fireworks, splutter of sparklers making circles in the darkness, rich rush of sweetness as I bit into our homemade toffee apples on bonfire night. The anticipation of traditional ‘Festivals of Light’ celebrations from various culture. Leaving mince pies on the hearth on one special evening. As each grey, damp morning rolled from one to the next, miraculously, I opened my curtains to see a deep blanket of brilliant white thrown over the land. Tremendous no-school snowy day! Clad in duffle coats, scarves, gloves, hats and wellies, children, from different schools and different classes, trudged up the hill pulling their sledges or sheet of plastic after each wild and thrilling descent. Giggling, shouting, laughing, noses tingling with Jack Frost’s ice. This joyful explosion of activity contrasted starkly with the dormant, seemingly dead, earth beneath. Endless Winter, full of surprises, is hard to beat.
Lady Spring tiptoed gently forwards, tentatively and slowly. Clearing dead branches and sweeping mulched leaves, to reveal the tiny shoots of the first snowdrops, little drops of snow, who led the way. A chorus of birds, singing, in search for food. Pink and white blossom on trees which lined our roadsides, leaves unfurled to reveal verdant, lush spring green. And soon an explosion of colour and delight as a result of the unseen, steady work of the Root Children beneath the soil. The jubilation of re-birth, smell of freshly mown grass, lighter evenings, playing catch with friends in the park, oiling my bike, the rush of air against my face as my legs pump faster and faster, turning the wheels. Spring, so hopeful and kind.
Majestic, resplendent Queen Summer who’s bold and mighty if she chooses to shine forth. Endless days, homework forgotten, time to get bored, watch the world go by. As nature heated up, we calmed down. Lying on my back in Echo Hollow, in the dales, watching the fluffy, light clouds morph from one animal to another. Sand angels and castles, crazy volleyball on Bamburgh beach, picnics together, heat warmed my back and penetrated my soul making me brave enough to race, fearlessly, into the breath-taking cold North Sea. Blue skies. No shoes as I walked through the bracken and heather, a picnic of finger food, swaying aimlessly in the hammock, my family of dolls, our large green canvas tent in the garden, more picnics, open doors and windows, the breeze blowing cobwebs away throughout the house. Dogs snoozed in the shade, sleeping out under the stars. Summer opened her arms and we responded, smiling for no reason.
I’ve always loved each season as it arrives and am happy to bid it farewell when it makes way for the next.
Queen Summer goodbye
Queen Summer goodbye
You can no longer stay
Prince Autumn is on his way
Queen Summer goodbye
In more recent times, and certainly highlighted by the burning temperatures this summer, I’m conscious that our four seasons are changing from the ones I experienced as a child. I wonder if they might be merging into two; one hot and scalding, the other wet and rainy? To a large extent my gut instinct is backed up by scientific evidence, and, although delighted to read that Liz Bentley, chief executive of the Royal Meteorological Society, believes we’ll continue to enjoy four seasons I, like many millions of others, am mortified and terrified about our growing climate change crisis.
The statistics, facts and figures often render me speechless and feeble. As a storyteller being speechless is not at all useful!
In schools, libraries and at home, as I listen to children voice their fears and panic about climate change, I’m struck by how much worse it is for them. The messaging that ‘the next generation will save the planet’ must weigh heavily on tiny shoulders and be an almost impossible burden for little children. There’s little wonder that we’re witnessing an increasing number of teenagers suffering from anxiety disorders.
I believe it’s our responsibility, as the adults, to protect young children (particularly under 6 years) against these worries when they’re powerless to make significant change. Young children learn about the world through imitation, so we can – and should – lead by our own living example in areas such as recycling; up-cycling; making informed decisions about our carbon footprint. In the main, it’s what we do, not what we say, which has the biggest impact on children of this age, with the notable exception of stories and storytelling which, we know from numerous studies, has a profound and lasting effect on young minds.
As a storyteller, nature and the natural world are at the heart of my work. I’m committed to serving families, educators, librarians as they raise young people. I’m passionate about inspiring these children to connect deeply with their playfellows, be that the rocks, trees or plants, their animal brothers and sisters or the weather beings. I do this through the magic of song, rhyme, games, movement and story.
If we first embed a love of and respect for Mother Earth it follows that they have a much higher chance of wanting to champion, fight for and protect her, when they are of age.
So I urge you to consider sharing hopeful and uplifting stories of the earth, sea, sky, plants, animals and weather when your children are little. Tell stories about the seasons in each season and watch as their love for our planet blossoms and grows naturally and organically.
Then you can ask them the question I often ask myself, ‘What’s your favourite season?’
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My next online Storytelling Masterclass is on 2nd February (11am – 12.15pm).