Into Autumn

Stopping and starting

There’s a freshly spun spider web glimmering in my kitchen window. I was startled when the yellowing light moved through its dewdrops and first caught my eye (and then when I saw the size of its maker) the other morning. Standing in my pyjamas, the overnight cool creeping through the floors and into my feet, I marvelled, we’re moving into autumn.

The autumn equinox, a more official gateway into the next season, is still a few weeks away but it’s in the air already. Something is ending and something is beginning — a subtle shift in the colour and temperature and texture of the days. But where are the edges? Is it the golden light or first crinkle of leaves, school bags packed or a fresh calendar page? Or maybe it’s the first morning you have to turn on the light. How do you recognize the onset of transition? Is there a distinct point when something becomes something else? And what does that feel like? Excitement? Trepidation? Relief?

There’s so much to hold on to and so much to let go of. Everything is changing and I have so many questions. Maybe you do, too?

The movement from summer into autumn is one of stopping and starting. Close the windows but don’t put your sandals away yet. Holding on and letting go. A gentle transition, if we allow it to be so. Answers come forward in their own time. Maybe we can allow ourselves to climatize.

Like many parents, the school rhythm drives the current of my family’s ebb and flow through the year. I walked my kids to their first day of the new term this week and then cried into my coffee before sitting down at my desk, opening my own new notebook and scrawling autumn on the first page. It was in this moment that I realized I’m not quite ready to embrace what’s next, not really, not just yet.

Autumn itself is a transitional season and I’ve decided to allow myself just that — a transition.

Without rush

I’m full to the brim with summer even as the vibe has become grey and damp here in London. Wisps of the season of expansion are still everywhere I look. I see them in the seashells, feathers, and bright smiling polaroids decorating every surface in our home; in our swimsuit tan lines and pileup of sandals at the front door; in my soft pink and bright magenta cosmo and sweet peas’ ongoing bursts. And I feel them in the way my children come to my bed to linger in the morning, just as they have these last few months when we’ve had nowhere to go and nothing to do — days to make how we choose. 

We live in a world that asks us to do so much and leaves so little time to reflect on, absorb, and integrate what has happened. Each season takes time to fully land within us. Summer in particular, with all its comings and goings, metabolizes slowly before rooting and ultimately fueling us into and through the colder, darker months ahead.

And so autumn is an invitation to slow down, breathe deeply, and pay attention. A space of transition. A space to feel our feet and let things land. A space of holding on and letting go.

Put on that jumper but leave your door ajar. Consider what kind of web you’ll spin as you’re energized by the remaining sun. Be in between for a few moments before moving into autumn in your own time, your own way.

What does the transition to autumn look like for you? What does it feel like?

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Your autumn Balance Practice

I’m so excited to share new writing, practices, subscriber-only events, and exclusive sneak peeks into my new book(!) here. I also wonder how Balance Practice has been landing with you and what you feel most drawn toward in the season ahead. Please use the below poll and drop a comment about what you’re loving in this space. What might best support your practice this autumn?

I look forward to being here with you and practicing together.