When the Trees Let Go, So Do We
Embracing the Equinox as a Threshold: A Season of Gathering, Shedding, and Honouring the Subtle Shifts
I’m writing this at 3 a.m., feeding my son while the crickets and frogs hum outside my window. The soft red glow of my bedside lamp makes the room feel warm, cocooned in stillness. I know daylight will come soon, and though sleep would be welcome, these moments feel almost magical—the in-between, where time seems to pause, and the world holds its breath.
The wheel of the year turns again, bringing us to the threshold of the equinox—a moment of perfect balance, where light and dark meet as equals before tipping toward the descent of autumn or the awakening of spring. In the southern hemisphere, Mabon unfolds in hues of gold and rust, a season of harvest, gathering, and release. In the northern hemisphere, Ostara stirs, unfurling tender green shoots and the quiet promise of renewal. One exhales, the other inhales—two halves of the same breath.
I have always been drawn to the slower seasons, to the way autumn asks us to let go with grace. It is, without question, my favourite time of year. There is a softness to it, a kind of melancholy beauty in watching the trees surrender their leaves, knowing they will return when the time is right. It is a reminder that there is a season for everything—a time to grow, to bloom, to shed, to rest. I speak about these deeper rhythms in my Moon Mail offerings, exploring how these ancient Sabbats are woven into the fabric of our lives, but here, I want to share something more personal—how I feel this shift in my body, in my home, in the smallest rituals of my days.
Right now, my nights are spent in the gentle glow of a small red light perched on my postpartum trolley, casting a warm halo as I tend to night feeds. In the quiet hush of these hours, I find myself thinking, dreaming, allowing my mind to stretch into creative corners it rarely visits in the brightness of day. There is something meditative about these moments, about the rhythm of wakefulness and sleep, of nourishment given and received. It reminds me of the importance of creating sanctuary—not just in a grand sense, but in the small, tender ways we care for ourselves and our spaces.
This season always pulls me toward making home—toward deepening the comfort within my walls, wrapping my family in warmth. The way we move through our space changes as the air cools. We gather closer, reach for the softest blankets, fill our home with flickering candlelight. My children feel this shift too. Our days slow, stories are read under dimmed lamps, hands wrap around steaming cups. The food we prepare reflects the season’s generosity—pumpkin cake, orange cake, sumac chicken soup, sautéed vegetables with cheesy omelettes for breakfast. Meals become heartier, richer, carrying the weight of tradition and care.
Living in rhythm with nature isn’t about grand rituals or elaborate ceremonies—it is about the small, daily ways we align with the world around us. It is the way our hands reach for different ingredients, the way our homes shift to hold the season, the way we listen to what our bodies crave as the world changes.
Whether you are stepping into the golden embrace of Mabon or the tender bloom of Ostara, I hope you find ways to honour this turning of the wheel. Let it guide you to what you need—whether that is slowing down, creating warmth, releasing what no longer serves, or welcoming in the light. The seasons shift, and so do we. May we move with them, with open hands and open hearts.
If you’re a paid member, I have a ritual for you that I’ll be sharing later today—something simple yet potent to honour this transition.
As always, thank you for being here and for cultivating this space and community together. Jump on the chat and let me know what changes are happening in your home—I’d love to hear.