Autumn Equinox Reflections: Tethered in Transition 

Amy Oledzki on September 12, 2025

Look out your window.

Every falling autumn leaf is a tiny kite

with a string too small to see

held by the part of you

in charge of making beauty out of grief.

-Andrea Gibson

Autumn is often described as a season of letting go, but late poet Andrea Gibson shifts that perspective: the leaf is not severed, it’s tethered. Even as it drifts, it remains bound by an invisible string to “the part of you in charge of making beauty out of grief.” This reframes loss as continuity rather than absence. The autumn equinox, too, is not simply a point of light diminishing but a hinge moment. In caregiving and grief, this resonates deeply: the people we love don’t simply “fall away.” Their lives, rituals, or even the exhaustion and tenderness of caregiving remain tethered in memory, shaping us. What’s lost still pulls on us, even if the string is too fine to see. Gibson’s leaf-as-kite image shows autumn as a season of staying tethered in invisible ways. That’s exactly what the equinox is: a balance point we can’t quite see, but that still holds us. 

Summer often drives us outward into endless lists and tasks fueled by long daylight hours. I always start summer with a long list… that I never quite complete. The abundance of light can feel like pressure to do more, achieve more. Autumn arrives as a gentle course correction. Days shorten, and instead of “get it all done,” the season invites us to ask: What’s worth gathering in? What matters most to keep tethered before the darkness deepens? Where summer stretched us into endless doing, autumn invites us into choosing—what do we gather in, what do we let lie, what invisible strings do we honor before the darkness deepens? 

“Equinox” comes from the Latin aequus (equal) and nox (night). On this day, night and day are nearly the same length. The balance is fleeting—it tips almost immediately. This teaches us that equilibrium isn’t permanent, but a moment we pass through. What a kindness this revelation is. 

My soul expands whenever nature surrounds me. This morning, the scent of fall was on the breeze. It was a mix of damp, pre-rain air, dying leaves, late-summer blooms, and something I can’t quite name. While September often feels like an extension of summer, this morning felt right. Something deep in my soul reached toward the autumnal pull and found a friend, a compassionate knowing in the shifting season. I exhaled into the dark gray blanket, and it surrounded me with the comfort of a mother. Nature has a way with us, doesn’t she? 

When I left my house an hour earlier, the sky was ablaze—the kind of sunrise granted only on bright mornings before a storm. Summertime streaked the sky in pinks, oranges, purples, and reds. The cozy gray of autumn swallowed the colors whole, and my soul exhaled.  

Autumn carries a feeling of liminality. It is neither hot nor cold, but it can be each at times. It begins fully green and ends fully bare, delivering its bounty to carry us through cold, dark months. Autumn is a season of unveiling, of showing what’s been inside all along. Leaves reveal hidden colors as chlorophyll breaks down. Symbolically, this is powerful: the green of summer isn’t lost; it’s stripped away, allowing what was always there to shine in red, orange, and purple brilliance. Fall’s palette isn’t just beauty before death. The hues are truth revealed at the moment of transition. 

The gentleness of fall steadies us… if we choose to embrace it. Yes, it signals the approach of barren cold, but it is also mild and gentle. It doesn’t scorch or freeze. It allows for natural release, quiet dying, lingering goodbyes. The leaves that fall to reveal bare branches create a blanket over the hard, dusty ground, promising nourishment for the growth to come. What we let go of during our fall seasons isn’t lost forever. As it disintegrates into the ground, its lessons, wisdom, and richness soak into the places that will sprout new life. Whether losses or gains, highs or lows, failures or successes, the things we shed in preparation for life’s darker seasons become the nourishment that will emerge again in the spring. 

“To let go, I allow life’s brevity to be its magic.“

Another line inspired by Andrea Gibson, a masterful weaver of words whose life on earth ended this past July, one month shy of 50 years old. These words reorient me on days that pass too quickly. If we don’t let go, we drag the past into the coming winter. Rather than nourishing the ground as it naturally falls apart, it becomes deadweight, frozen in place.  

We can be afraid and unravel chaotically, or we can trust the process, embrace letting go, and believe the things we’ve held onto will become the nourishment that brings forth tomorrow’s beauty. We can bemoan the cooler temperatures and dead leaves underfoot, or we can see these days as gifts—a cushion between the heat of summer and the cold of winter, a time to prepare for all that is to come. 

Sometimes a season ends long before we notice. We don’t always get to choose our “lasts.” We don’t always know. Tomorrow looms mysterious—that’s a universal truth. There are always looming goodbyes, in every season. We just don’t always get to know what they will be. Lasts are so hard… and so are firsts. Both are necessary components of living, moving, and being. 

And we will be asked: Are you willing? Are you willing to step into this change, this new chapter, this new season? Sometimes the question has the audacity to come after the change—it doesn’t ask our permission before shaking our comfortable lives. Sometimes it must… because we’d never choose it for ourselves, even if it’s what we need. 

I want to exist in the present without sacrificing the beauty of the past or my hope for the future. I want to continue to learn how to dance in the both/and of grief and gratitude, to swim in the waters of tension and unknowing with a heart that trusts and says yes to what comes next. Like the light and dark of the equinox, these are realities that can be held simultaneously. 

Written by Laura Gamble
Clinical Administrative Coordinator

Gifts of the Autumn Equinox

Amy Oledzki on September 23, 2024

When I was a child, I had one of those fold-out growth charts on my wall, where my mom would measure how tall I had gotten every few months, draw a line and write my age. I was always one of the shortest kids in my class, so my growth was not always obvious, but that chart always affirmed and proved, that yes, indeed, I had grown, even when it wasn’t evident to the naked eye. Every time my mom was able to record a line a little bit higher than the last, we celebrated with gratitude. I am reminded of this as we approach the autumn equinox this week, a time both in the garden and on our own journey when we take stock of growth, harvest, and give thanks.

Astrologically speaking, 2024 has a doozy of an autumnal equinox week. Last week’s Harvest Moon not only qualified as a “supermoon,” when the moon is within 90% of its closest to earth, but we also experienced a partial lunar eclipse on Tuesday night, where it looked like someone took a bite out of the moon for about an hour. Being the closest full moon to the equinox officially makes it a “Harvest Moon,” which has everything to do with those that work in agriculture. “Unlike other full moons, this full moon rises at nearly the same time—around sunset—for several evenings in a row, giving farmers several extra evenings of moonlight and allowing them to finish their harvests before the frosts of fall arrive,” writes Catherine Boeckmann for the Old Farmer’s Almanac.

And yesterday, the earth’s center and the sun’s center lined up once again, balancing roughly 12 hours of day and 12 hours of night before the dark encroaches upon the light for the winter. While the spring equinox is all about planting and birthing new endeavors, the autumn equinox encourages us to take stock of what’s grown, give thanks, and let go of what no longer serves our highest good. In the garden, it’s time to reap what we’ve sown. Around Hope Grows, that means we are cutting bouquets and harvesting vegetables. I can hold the flowers I’ve nurtured in my hands and watch as people enjoy bouquets. Chef Barbie can make soup with the butternut squash that’s now ripe in the garden.

Spiritually, this is the season to stop, look at where we’ve been, where we’re not anymore, and honor our growth, even if it’s not evident to the naked eye. As the trees shed their leaves in preparation for winter dormancy, it’s time to follow suit and release what no longer serves our highest good. Now is the perfect time to forgive past hurts, release negative thought or behavior patterns, and take steps toward achieving more internal harmony. For those who are tasked with caregiving responsibilities, this has the potential to be quite challenging, as you are probably used to focusing all your energies on someone else. It’s not as easy as cutting a bouquet or harvesting a squash. So, I challenge you, during this astrologically eventful week, to take a moment, find your own personal growth, and celebrate. This may not be easy for some of you reading this, but growth can come in many forms, including ways that only you know about. However small or large it may be, be honest with yourself, mark it, and give thanks. The universe is always working.

Written by Jessica Giannotta
Hope Grows Horticulturist