I’ve been thinking about the equinox more than usual this time around. Sunday, during the Turning Point writing workshop I led for people with serious illness, someone mentioned that we were only a few minutes away from the 3:44 p.m. fall equinox, the balance point of summer and winter, light and dark. We wrote right through it, considering what threshold we were about to cross or already crossing in our lives.
Today, just a little past the equinox and into the true north of fall, I sit on the porch in the comfort of a sweater while the wind blows through the Osage Orange tree and the fur of the sleeping dog (happy because he just shared an omlette with me). The sky to the west is blanketed with cloud, the gaps between filled with bright light blue. Crossing seasons means landing on the other side of a threshold, and in Kansas, a cycle of back again in summer before being launched into near-winter in record time.
Yet there’s an inherent magic in any threshold moment: one that frames what season in our soul or weather just passed, orients us to changing patterns of light, and welcomes us to the future, which is now. It’s the magic that comes of letting go with or without working at letting go, and of landing in new possibility with or without pole-jumping with all our might to get there. Change comes whether we will it, accept it, ignore it or resist it.
So here’s to the lengthening of the delicious darkness in which we can learn to see and feel in new and old ways. And here’s to all the threshold moments in our lives that remind us how spacious, mutable and glowing each moment is.