Getting acquainted with the interiors of religious buildings as a kid was often bookended with two religious events, one Christian and one pagan. I have vivid memories of Easter when visiting little village churches full of light, ancient gray stone and daffodils (that converted me instantly). I also have harvest festival memories from late in autumn that morphed into Halloween when we moved to this country.
In a way, Halloween was its own thing, a strange mix of decorations, too much candy and election yard signs all mixed together. I asked my husband if I could give out apples instead of candy only to have the suggestion scoffed at, in a time when there were news stories about this kind of “treat” having razor blades hidden inside. One image stands out for me from all those eras of distinctive, woven, cone-and horn-shaped containers, usually baskets, called cornucopia. The form echoes the distinctive shape of the shofar of Jewish heritage that when blown heralds the Jewish New Year at Rosh Hashanah. The same shofar horn at Yom Kippur awakens our souls for teshuvah (repentance).
The origin myth dates back to the ancient Greeks who had followed a legend of the god Zeus when he was a toddler. According to the myth, baby Zeus accidentally broke off the horn of a mother goat called Amalthea who had nursed him in his infancy. This horn (cornu) of plenty (copia) was then blessed by Zeus so that it would provide an endless supply of whatever its owner wanted. The first ancient promises of abundance and plenty.
These days, our harvest season and Halloween usually occur before the first killing frosts, but not always. The ancient prompts still apply for Halloween as it is actually part of a three-day seasonal observance called Allhallowtide, marking a vigil before All Saints Day and All Souls Day. All Saints and All Souls were far more important than Halloween. It speaks to a time when many cultures were better attuned to the changing seasons.
For some of us, this time of year is challenging. A beloved work colleague habitually finds this time of year sad and somewhat morbid — a time of transition, to them, that prefigures the death and dying of the light, as the season’s change from late fall to winter. They tend to feel better after November. While this may feel like a random feeling to some readers, to others it may signal a time when it is acceptable to hibernate like the bears we see so much of at this time of year.
Personally, I’ve always had the opposite feeling that mid-to-late October is a kind of abundant miracle; a glorious fling of fruits (soft fruits and hard), vegetables (the root ones that add so much color), and autumnal flowerings and fruitings (of every hue if we count mushrooms, ornamental winter cabbages and roses). Like the rising sun every morning (even if we don’t see it daily), this season of wild and generous abundance in late fall is a moment to consider, “How does nature still keep doing this?” It appears that celebrating Creation (for some of us, God’s creation) and giving praise in a pantheistic way is so easy in this region, and may it move us to take better care of the Earth for the next generations.
At my church, this time of year brings the Fall Festival, and it always happens on Indigenous Peoples weekend, the second weekend of October. It’s a date with destiny as it is a major fundraiser for our church community. As a trustee, I’m invested in us doing really well. There is corn to prep for chowder, baking to do, fall clean-up to organize, wreaths to make, adding our names to sign-up sheets to volunteer, and a new popcorn-making machine to purchase and test out. Many people are needed for this effort in our church, in our sister church, St. John’s Episcopal (and our Ashfield Churches Together initiatives), but it is also a joyful, major undertaking for the whole town of Ashfield.
Ashfield’s Fall Festival was actually founded by stakeholders at both the First Congregational and St. John’s Episcopal churches, but the event now involves more than 100 volunteers, offering music, children’s activities (like pumpkin painting), arts and crafts, and inevitably, food and drink. Many community organizations participate and while it may seem a little boastful, Ashfield does this kind of thing well. The festival is highly dependent on the weather, although fair or foul, folks come out for it year after year.
Recalling the idea I mentioned earlier of a horn of plenty, this year I thank Zeus and cherish mine as a celebration of the gifts of community and a sound of alarm for climate justice. Does your own horn of plenty call to you this year?
Hetty Startup is a trustee and member of the First Congregational Church of Ashfield, and the social media volunteer for the Interfaith Council of Franklin County.