The first hard frost came last night. A bittersweet arrival for a bittersweet time of year. As bittersweet as the dandelion coffee I favor these chilly fall mornings. First frost means it’s time for a lot of goodbyes. Goodbye flowers. Goodbye long evenings in the garden. Goodbye color. The garden is now a bouquet of death.

In New England, we call this time of year the return of “stick season.” But I wonder if “bone season” might be a more accurate name. The bones of the trees reveal themselves in the glorious, fading hues of decay, telling us it’s time for cutting back, back to the bone. I fill my stock pot with bones and hummmm along as they simmer and sing their song of nourishment in the hard places.

Yesterday, I heard a witch I admire, Ariella Daly, say that “so much has been lost in the ways of feminine, earth-based wisdom lineages. But our bones never forgot.” I wonder… What was the name of the last ancestor that knew how to throw the bones and read the prophecies in their gritty knobs and smooth, dry curves? Who was it who first told the story of the singing bones?

Bone Mother, Stick Mother, Hag of Winter. I hear her rattling in the trees nearby. I hear her rattling the seeds in the stalks and pods. She hangs back for now, patient as only Bone Mother can be. Come midday thaw, the worms will still rise to warm in the sunny soil and there are still green things left to wilt. Who knew the process of dying back was full of so much life?

This morning as I sip scalding hot tea and stand in the crunchy grass with aching toes, I console myself with the thought I still have time. I congratulate myself on my preparations. Because, indeed, I have been preparing for many weeks. Preparing for a bone season like no other. A winter of word magic. A winter to birth a book.

As I brace myself for the great creative writing endeavor before me, I am reminded of what it was like in the last few months of pregnancy. Cutting back on commitments, drinking infusions to shore up minerals and nutrients. Sleeping as much as possible. I have said goodbye to most of my office hours and I have begun tapering off of my hypnosis and coaching clients. Making room. I have also been collecting bones. I put them on windowsills and in plant pots, I don’t know why. Why not? And because I know that the process of birthing is so full of death. I wonder if the bone woman likes my offerings or if she takes no notice.

I tip my teacup with an offering for her this morning. The frost melts instantly and pools in shades of brown where the tea drops to the earth. Back indoors, I find Bone Mother waiting and accept her invitation back to my writing desk. She greets me with the grey teeth of open journal pages and her cloak spread out, extending the hours of shadow, perfect for dreaming.

Welcome back, Bone Mother. Welcome back, witches. I am looking forward to sharing more writing with you in the coming months.