“Even as I fall, I nourish the roots of what will grow next.” ~Unknown
by CATHI CUREN
As the days grow shorter and the air turns crisp, the fall equinox teaches that death and decay are part of life's balance between light and dark. And although the equinox has recently passed, across spiritual and religious traditions, this time marks not only the changing of the seasons but a deeper turning inward. Just as trees shed their leaves and the landscape begins to quiet, we too are invited to let go. In this sacred threshold between summer’s abundance and winter’s stillness, we find space to honor what we have lost: loved ones, iterations of ourselves, and begin to reflect on the gifts they’ve left behind. The fall equinox teaches us that while death and decay are part of life's rhythm, so too are memory, gratitude, and renewal.
Spiritually and symbolically, the fall equinox has long been understood as a time of transformation, reflection, and release. Across cultures and religions, this moment of balance is honored not just for its physical shift, but for its invitation to look inward, to reflect on what we’ve gained, what we’ve lost, and what we’re ready to lay down as we move toward the quieter days of the year.
In this sacred space between light and dark, life and death, we find a powerful opportunity to honor those we have lost, reflect on the lessons they left behind, and discover the inner strength to carry their legacy forward.
In many spiritual traditions, the fall equinox is a time of gratitude and reverence. The celebration of Mabon, for example, is a harvest festival that honors the Earth’s abundance while acknowledging the coming darkness. It is a time to give thanks, share the fruits of one’s labor, and begin the spiritual work of letting go.
In Christian traditions, the equinox leads into a season of reflection and remembrance. The harvest metaphors in scripture represent reaping what one has sown, wheat and chaff, death and rebirth, and finding deep resonance in this season. It is no coincidence that All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day follow shortly after, providing sacred space to honor the dead and reflect on the meaning of mortality.
In Indigenous cultures, the cycles of nature are intimately tied to community practices and ancestral wisdom. The fall is often a time of storytelling, of teaching through the lens of nature’s changes. It is a reminder that life moves in cycles, and that death is not an end but a return to the Earth and a transformation that nourishes future generations.
Even in Eastern philosophies, such as Taoism, or certain forms of Buddhism, this time represents a balancing of yin and yang, and the cooling, receptive energy of yin begins to dominate, inviting stillness, contemplation, and surrender.
I share all of this because many of us are going through numerous losses. Loss, in its many forms, is an inescapable part of life. Whether it is the death of a loved one, the end of a relationship, the passing of a dream, or the quiet fading of a chapter of life, autumn gives us permission to name those losses and sit with their weight.
The equinox, in particular, offers a spiritual turning point. Just as day and night find more balance, so too can we hold both our grief and our gratitude. We can mourn what has passed and also give thanks for what it gave us.
This is a sacred opportunity to honor the lives of those who shaped us, to remember not only that they are gone, but that they lived, and that their impact remains. We carry them in our memories, in our values, our daily rituals. We carry them in our hearts. In the process of reflecting on their lives we may rediscover our own strength, purpose, and capacity to heal.
Perhaps the most impactful image of autumn is that of falling leaves. Trees, in their quiet wisdom, release what no longer serves them. The vibrant reds, golds, and browns remind us that there can be beauty in letting go. This shedding is not a loss, but a preparation; it provides a clearing of space so that new life may emerge when the light returns.
In our own lives, the falling leaves can represent what we, too, are ready to release. Perhaps it is grief we’ve carried too long, or a memory we need to honor instead of avoid. Perhaps it is a version of ourselves that no longer fits. Just as trees surrender their leaves to the wind, we are invited to surrender, not in defeat, but in trust.
In this stillness, may we find clarity. In the quiet, may we hear our own inner voice more clearly — perhaps the whisper of an ancestor, a loved one, a part of ourselves long buried. May we find that grief, rather than something to “get over,” is something to integrate, a companion on the journey.
Therefore, this season as the leaves fall and the Earth grows quiet, may we too find the courage to release, to remember, and to rest. And in doing so, may we find the strength to move forward, rooted in memory, guided by wisdom, and open to the quiet transformations of the season ahead.
With much love, Cathi
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