Autumn Equinox


Here in the Northern Hemisphere, you can tell when autumn starts to quietly elbow its way into the tail end of summer: The cricket’s song is slower, more leisurely in the cooler evenings; the mornings have a distinct chill and freshness hinting of the rain-washed air to come in the weeks ahead; even when the temperature rises in the afternoon, the heat is warm, but more lackluster than it was in July and August. The light is later to arrive in the mornings, quicker to leave at night.

As the wheel of the year turns, we arrive at that seasonal tipping point of the autumnal equinox – that moment when the duration of light and darkness are equal, like a perfectly balanced teeter-totter, before the balance ever so gradually starts to shift toward later fall and winter and the dark of the year.

The onset of autumn signals the winding down of the harvest season. Pantries and freezers are filled with the abundance of the yield, set aside to nourish the body – and the soul –  through the cold and dark months of winter. I find a deep sense of satisfaction and genuine, fundamental wealth, when I see the rows of jars in various jewel tones on the shelf, the luscious-ness of summer preserved, set to brighten the table in the darker months.

It is also the time of year to settle in and reflect on the personal seeds you planted in the spring; take some time to look back and access what has been or can still be harvested, but also (just as important) what may be best left withering on the vine, maybe to become nourishment for the emotional ground in which you plant your next season’s goals, ideas and dreams.

“At the heart of autumn’s gifts are the twin energies of relinquishing and harvesting…In holding these two in tension we are reminded that in our letting go we also find abundance.”  – Christine Valters Paintner

It is the season of candlelight, comfort food, thick sweaters; things that bring warmth to body and soul as we acknowledge that we are now turning toward the cold and dark of the year – the quieter, more introverted season that stands in contrast to the busier, more extroverted nature of spring and then summer. Opposites that contrast and compliment, that dance the year together.

Parker J. Palmer is a man I greatly admire; he is gifted in his ability at putting exquisite wording to the quieter, more contemplative parts of our lives. He has written a beautiful piece about the “paradox of fall” here. I hope you enjoy it.

Celebrate the Equinox and the arrival of autumn. May you find much abundance.


(note: I realize I neglected to post about Summer Solstice this year – so the full circle of the seasons is incomplete here, my apologies – will pick it up next time ’round.  – PA)


Beltane: The Bright Fire of Spring


Beltane (May 1st) is one of the Celtic quarter-days, landing at the middle point between the spring equinox and summer solstice. By many, it is considered the height of spring and the beginning of the time of year when the light seems to rule over the darkness. We feel it as the mornings grow lighter earlier (the sky is no longer dark when the alarm clock rings in the morning, the sun not rising until well into the first cup of coffee); there is more birdsong, with some new and different voices in the chorus as migrating birds return; the twilight starts to arrive later in the evening.

There is the hint that summer is indeed starting to make its way toward you, and gardeners’ thoughts start drifting toward the time when tomatoes can be planted.

Flowering is in its full color and there is the sense that the world has truly come alive again after its long winter’s sleep. Beltane marks the season of fertility, the rising sap, the anticipation of the bearing of fruit (and offspring). It is the time of celebrating the life force in all its forms. The traditional Maypole dance is an ancient and phallic symbol of the celebration of fertility.

May Day baskets, left on doorsteps, mirror an older Celtic tradition of scattering flower petals on doorways as a blessing.

In many cultures there is a tradition of building fires and feasting at this time of year – welcoming back the warmth and light after a cold, dark winter; sharing the near-last of the preserved pantry with gratitude for last year’s harvest and in hopeful anticipation for the growing season which is just beginning to be seen in the early emerging of newly-planted crops. It is still often a precarious, liminal time of year, so the celebrations are ones for hopeful fruition of all sorts in the coming season. (If you still have a jar of canned peaches tucked away, this would be a good time to break it out and savor the memories of last summer, look forward to the return of fresh succulent peaches at your local farmers market).

Today, it is still a good time to look forward and be hopeful: Plant seeds both in the ground and those for personal projects or goals for the year ahead; bring fresh flowers or flowering branches into the house; open windows and doors on the first warm days (the impetus toward spring cleaning makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?) and feel the living energy all around (and hopefully within) you!

Celebrating St. Brigid

IMG_0516The light today was different. For awhile the air was softer in that way that indicates the coming of spring. The seemingly near-endless deluge of cold, biting rain that has been the bulk of our winter here in the Pacific Northwest was blessedly absent and there was a slight breeze afoot rather than a coarse wind. It was like the landscape gave a sigh of relief that the winter was coming to an end and that we are turning the corner toward spring.

I know. Tell that to the folks in Colorado who just got delivered a foot or more of snow. But here at least, the sense of the seasonal wheel turning, the light returning, St. Brigid’s Day in all its magic and sun-drenched glory, was alive and well.

Brigid holds sway in both the Christian and pre-Christian realms, and is one of the main Saints in Ireland. Snowdrops, one of the first flowers to emerge in late winter / early spring, are one of her symbols. She bridges the natural and human world, is associated especially with the elements of fire and water. There are holy wells across Ireland devoted to her; I visited one in County Kerry, many years ago, saw in the tunneled grotto a plethora of devotional offerings both elaborate and spontaneously pocket-content plain. Notes of gratitude, and those requesting protection and aid. Most amazing were the canes and crutches leaning up against one wall, the implication of the power of the sulphur-fragrant water burbling softly at the far end of the tunnel, lit by a hole in the ceiling, allowing the rays of sunlight to illuminate the marvel of it.

The longer days, the beginning of bud break, the traditional time when lambs start being born – Brigid invites us to feel hopeful for the growing light and awakening of the natural world.

The Celtic cross-quarter day (those days halfway between solstices and equinoxes) that falls at this same time is Imbolc, a word that means “in the belly.” Not only ewes and human mothers, but the earth’s belly itself is starting to stir with new life. This day always feels like the beginning of a New Year in its own distinct way. So light a candle, make a wish, enjoy the lengthening days, witness the new young plants pushing their way out of the ground up toward the sun. I

There are many stories and symbols associated with St. Brigid. She is considered the saint of dairy workers, cab drivers, mothers, poets, and many more.

Other reflections on St. Brigid’s Day by some friends and colleagues:

Marisa Glaser Goudy

Suzi Banks Baum


To Bless a New Building


grange exterior (architectural angle)When I became a Life-Cycle Celebrant, even though I received certification in both weddings and funerals, I knew I didn’t want to get trapped in the chute of being just a wedding celebrant or just a funeral celebrant, or just any-one-kind of celebrant, for that matter.

I truly believe in the power of ritual and ceremony to carry us meaningfully across all sorts of thresholds in the course of our lives; the problem is, we have been cut off from the gristle and heart and soul of such things, so that many of our passages are followed by rote, by some pale shadow of what they could possibly be, because we don’t know any better or any different; we sometimes end up feeling like something is lacking, an unpleasant dry-ish taste in our mouths, without us knowing quite why. This is what I want to change, a celebration at a time.

What is more sterile, more rote, for example, than a high school or college graduation? They all look alike; they are all by-the-book identical, for the most part. And yet. And yet….it still brings a tissue to the eye of many a parent (I remember it did to mine), it moves those who are graduating – I would bet regardless how jaded the teenaged or young adult heart – into a jubilant sense of having passed over a threshold where things now really are different and changed forever. The process of walking up one set of stairs, across a stage (the liminal space), to then receive a diploma and shake hands with the school principal for the last time and leave the stage at the other side; moving that tassel from one side to the other, a shiver of finality; such is the power of ceremony, even the most banal.

On the fringes of the ceremonial world, then, are the more subtle and less overt occasions, but none the less important. Transitions like retiring from life-long employment, moving to a new home/leaving a family home, making the bold decision to build a new building in service of a dream and seeing it to completion. The latter is very much like a graduation, complete with pithy speeches and an action (traditional ribbon-cutting instead of moving tassels) that separates what was to what is now and moving forward. That symbolic crossing of a threshold. There is much cheering and applauding in both cases, because there is the feeling that it’s real. A tangible thing. And therein lies the magic.

But how to make something like a new building significant and individual and real? How to honor the uniqueness and the commonality at the same time?

grange exterior (architectural angle)

I had the opportunity to do just that, about a week ago, at the official opening of The Urban Grange at Zenger Farm. It  coincided with the end of my six-years on their Board of Directors, so the ceremony gave me the chance to have a kind of small-g “graduation” for myself. For me, privately, this was a meaningful culminating event, as the capital campaign for the new building was the major and driving project in the final year of my board tenure.

The history of the building of the Grange and of the farm itself is made up of intertwined stories that stretch back and forth across nearly a century, involving the original Zenger family and all the people who have created the organization that exists today; their combined dreams for the future of this land that in ways takes on the aspect of a sacred space. I wove a few of these stories together, then offered everyone present the opportunity to express and leave behind their blessings and best wishes for the farm by making weathergrams that were strung between the deck pillars like their own personalized version of prayer flags. I closed with a blessing by Austrailian writer Mikail Leunig. Afterward, those assembled made and hung their weathergrams, visited with old and new friends and had more food and drink (in this case the feasting started before the ceremony, not left till last – it was also a party to celebrate the organization’s volunteers, after all).

Did the ceremony work its appropriate magic? I’d like to think so, and some of the feedback confirmed that. One person, who was familiar with the stories I shared, felt like those stories – and by extension the Zenger family – were duly honored by their telling. Others felt like the building was finally and officially “real.” That’s how I felt, too. Like the Grange settled itself a little deeper into its place. Earlier in the day there had been the official ribbon cutting with city officials and dignitaries, and the day ended with a blessing and a celebration. Combined together I think the building, the project, the people who made it happen, were all uniquely honored.

It is a subtle thing, sometimes. But I think it truly is a sort of magic.


We give thanks for places of simplicity and peace

Let us find such a place within ourselves.

We give thanks for places of refuge and beauty.

Let us find such a place within ourselves.

We give thanks for places of nature’s truth and freedom,

Of joy, inspiration and renewal,

Places where all people may find acceptance and belonging.

Let us search for these places:

In the world, in ourselves and in others.

Let us restore them.

Let us strengthen and protect them

And let us create them.

-Mikail Leunig



Earlier this year, I was honored to attend the Upsherin ceremony that friends held for their three-year-old son, Ezra.

Upsherin is a Yiddish word that literally means “shear off,” and the traditional ceremony dates back to the 17th century, if not earlier. It is richly steeped in Jewish tradition, and while my friends Ariel and Seth are not Orthodox, they nevertheless wanted to honor the deep cultural stories and traditions that their son was inheriting.

In traditional Judaism, the first three years of a child’s life are absorbed with the love and nurturing of the family. At the age of three the child is first introduced to the (outside) world of learning, education and the Torah. It is when the child first starts to catch a glimpse of their own gifts and talents and start to develop them. The hair is not cut during these first three years, as symbolic of holding on to and carrying what they were born with and developed during this formative period. At the age of three, this first hair-cutting is symbolic of the first (of many) cutting of ties with the family, as the child starts the process of making their own place in the world.

Okay, yes, Upsherin is traditionally only about boys. Girls do have their own at age-three rituals. And some families do have a first-haircut at age three for their daughters these days, as well. Like I said, Seth and Ariel aren’t Orthodox, and so the peyot (side-locks) were cut; their long-time Rabbi who was in attendance at this joyous celebration was a woman. There is room, I think, for the richness of tradition and the inclusiveness of more modern considerations. This is the exquisite mixture that Ariel and Seth live with and aspire to give as a birthright and celebration to Ezra.

And so we all gathered in Seth and Ariel’s comfortable living room. There was a delicious assortment of food and beverages available, including cookies in the shape of Hebrew letters (traditional treats at an Upsherin, to symbolize the sweetness of learning). There was lots of friendly conversation between people who both knew and didn’t know each other before this day. The whole house was warm and inviting.


Ezra was incredibly brave (or so it seems to this introvert): a three-year-old having just awakened from a nap, finding himself the center of attention (by a group of adult sand children that he mostly knew, but not all, but still…). He was happy to have the Hebrew letter cookies; wanted to keep hold of his favorite toy car in his other hand, thank you; definitely did not want to wear his grandfather’s tallit (prayer shawl), as would be tradition, so it was instead draped over the back of the chair in which he sat, in the middle of the room. Cameras poised and ready for what was to come.

The Rabbi spoke briefly and explained the meaning of the Upsherin, taught us a traditional song for the occasion that we then sang in unison, Jews and non-Jews alike. It brought us all together as a community, into the moment of this age-old tradition; elevated it beyond the simple haircut.

A friend of Seth and Ariel’s cuts hair for a living and so was in charge of the scissors. Ezra was uncertain, but this man put him at ease, expertly and swiftly starting to cut the massive amount of blond curls away. As was the tradition, grandparents and parents received the first-cut locks of hair as important keepsakes. Cameras snapped. People gathered were rapt. Ezra ate his
cookies, held his car, sat patiently.












We were all suddenly in a space at once current and timeless. It is the amazing beauty of ritual, of tradition, to be able to transport us “modern” people into a place that feels larger, more solid and intrinsically real and whole. We are grounded into a different kind of presence, where we are suddenly able to reach back and touch something much older, much more fundamental. Even for those of us for whom this isn’t our personal ethnic tradition; we are allowed witness into something rich and wonderful


And as soon as it started it was done.


The cloud of angelic curly locks were gone, and in the chair now sat a Child. No longer a baby.

Ezra refused to have the first kipah (skullcap) placed on his head, as was tradition. Okay, he’s a modern kid. All in good time.

Regrouping for the Holidays and Making New Traditions

The holidays can be such a delicate and often unpleasant emotional dance for so many people (myself included, this year).

But sometimes even the smallest of personal traditions can help, be it the foods you make (doesn’t have to be Christmas cookies, either), the friends you spend time with, other pleasant routines that have meaning and provide some self-care. They don’t even have to have anything specifically to do with the holidays, as in “celebrating” them; they can simply be an occasion to celebrate life, mark the passing of a year, to reflect on what’s important to you and to experience gratitude.

I have met with friends on the eastern slope of a beautiful, woodland park to greet the sunrise on the morning of Winter Solstice. We have done this for nearly a decade; sometimes there are more of us, sometimes fewer, as life and circumstances dictate. But we have managed to keep faith with this simple ritual that nourishes us far more than the bright orange Satsumas we always share at the occasion.

I have a “village” my dad made from blocks of wood nearly fifty years ago; it had been a beloved part of my Christmases growing up. He gave it to me a few years ago, deciding that in their (downsized) apartment there wasn’t really room to display it. I treasured it, but didn’t have much room for it either, so it mostly stayed packed away. I missed seeing it though, so a couple of times I tried to display it, but it didn’t have a real place to be, so it would just get sort of plopped in an available space on a tabletop or squished next to the small containerized Korean Fir we bring in every year and decorate with small ornaments and lights. These gestures felt half-assed and make-do and I felt bad. The simple act of unpacking it would bring a smile as I took out of their newspaper wrapping the blue hotel, green church, little pink house, yellow ochre market, and the other houses of various sizes and colors. I loved seeing them, but efforts to give them their due in displaying them felt pretty lame.

This is the first Christmas without both my parents. For that and other reasons I could have easily just let most of the holiday go by. However a two-day trip out-of-town in another part of the state with beautiful countryside that was completely different than home was the perfect “regrouping” and may indeed become a new tradition. But on Christmas Eve I suddenly felt driven to put up The Village. The top of the cd shelves wasn’t quite big enough for all the buildings, but I could fit most of them. I didn’t have the dark blue mat board with white lights poked through that dad used as backdrop and starry night sky, but I draped and surrounded this version with white lights and felt all the sweet magic of the scene that I did when I was young.

I am already thinking about where I can put it next year to be able to include all the buildings. Maybe even get a piece of dark blue mat board.

The Village 2014

The women at What’s Your Grief wrote a wonderful post about The Art of Regrouping, applicable not only when grief is part of the holidays, but also when plans unexpectedly go awry or you just need to find a personal alternative to others’ traditions.

Whatever or however you celebrate or pass the time during the holidays, may you find ways to make it meaningful and just right for you.