Fall Equinox: The Still Point

Equinox: The Still Point

Today I prepared for a work presentation, and quite intentionally, I wove the spirit of the equinox into slides about engineering. Balance kept rising to the surface, because that is what I am asking of my life now: that my worlds stand side by side as equals.

This is the day when light and darkness meet at the threshold.

Neither is asked to disappear.

Neither is greater than the other.

For one held breath, they stand together, before the Earth begins her long, slow exhale into the darker half of the year.

And so do I.

I have come to love the way the Earth teaches without words.

She speaks in the turning of leaves and the voice of the wind. In mountains and stones, in rivers and fire. In the animals who cross our paths as messengers. In the spider patiently weaving her web. In the quiet knowing that arrives only when we stop filling the silence and simply listen.

And so do I.

This year I climbed mountains, some of stone and some of spirit. I offered prayers to fire and water, to air and earth. I stood on sacred land far from home and gave thanks to Spirit, to Pachamama, to the ancestors, to those who walked that ground before me, and to myself.

I felt the elements move around me and through me. And again and again, the message came back clear as mountain water:

Release what you no longer need.

Trust what is unfolding.

Honor what is here.

Allow what is meant for you to find you.

Autumn already knows this.

The trees let go of their leaves without grief, surrendering them to the wind like offerings.

The land glows gold with the harvest we have co-created with her.

And I say thank you.

Thank you for what flourished.

Thank you for what surprised me.

Thank you for what challenged me enough to change me.

Thank you for the ones who walked beside me.

Thank you to the ones that left.

Thank you for the doors that opened.

And thank you for the doors that stayed closed, protecting a path I could not yet see.

At the foot of Ausangate, I surrendered into trust. I gave the fire my fear, my doubt, my scarcity, and I asked for one simple thing:

Let my heart want only what is meant for me.

That prayer is still unfolding. It grows deeper roots with every season.

Maybe balance was never about control, never about arranging every part of life until it sits perfectly even.

Maybe balance is knowing when to act and when to surrender.

When to speak and when to listen.

When to hold something close, and when to open my hands and let it go.

When to create, and when to rest.

When to reach for the light, and when to sit quietly in the dark and discover that it, too, is holy.

I am still learning.

So tonight, I honor the turning of the wheel.

I thank Mother Earth for another season beneath my feet.

I thank the elements, Earth, Air, Fire and Water, for reminding me always that I belong to something far greater than myself.

I honor my ancestors, my teachers, my guides, the animals and unseen beings who have crossed my path, and every soul who has shared a piece of this journey. And I honor myself, and all the inner work it took to arrive here. Now.

As I offer my prayers to the fire tonight, standing at this threshold between light and dark, I carry one question into the coming season:

What am I ready to harvest, and what am I finally ready to let fall?

May I have the wisdom to know the difference.

And may I trust the Earth to hold whatever I release.

Aho.