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

Tranquility

Amy Oledzki on April 2, 2025

Confidence in bloom is the vibe in the Healing Gardens of the Iris Respite House. The vibrant yellow of the daffodil flowers catch my attention as I contemplate how much I struggle this time of year with the transition between winter and spring. Just the other day, I had a burst of energy from the lingering of winter when a bit of snow flurries hovered over us. Opposite of what springing forth is about, I know, but the lightly falling snow, as it may, left me intrigued. It was definitely competing with the new growth of the changing season and that was exactly what my soul was doing.

The unrest of the soul is somewhat frustrating, as the weather flip flops during this time of year, wanting to stay a bit recluse still, but the change of season tells me a different story. I woke to a soft rain today as I began to write this blog. The temperature was a bit warmer than my body can handle. I am sure it is from the collide of the warmer temps with the rain, creating humidity. I’m not a fan of humidity, probably why I like Arizona so much. Humidity seems to drain my energy, but none the less, I persevered. I focused back to the sound and sight of outside, listening to the harmonious birdsong from the open window. The birds gave an uncaring impression regarding the unrest of my soul.

Spring is a beautiful example of nature’s resilience. The plants continue to be in full harmony with the season of equinox, bursting with hidden beauty from the dormancy of winter’s cold. Dormancy, a time of rest and conservation, ensuring the plant has the strength to flourish again, winter is akin to the concept of restoration that I value. My soul does what the month of April represents, a combination of tranquility and vibrant energy.

On the surface, the gardens feel calm, with gentle rain, soft blossoms, and the tender green of emerging leaves. Yet, beneath the calmness is a tremendous surge of life. Its almost as if one can feel the earth moving below, with this tug and pull of transition echoing my human experience. After the winter’s period of stillness and reflection, there is often an instinctual push to grow and reach. But growth doesn’t always feel graceful – it can be chaotic, raw, and powerful. The plants, though, seem to embrace this contradiction, thriving in both the calm and the intensity.

It makes perfect sense, winter’s stillness; it can feel like a sanctuary. Offering a kind of peace that’s hard to let go of when the change of season begins to rush forward again. The contrast between my inner rhythm and the outward surge of spring creates a desire to stay hidden, to linger in the restorative embrace of winter.

That feeling is deeply valid and if you recognize a similarity, you just might find comfort in seeking small ways to extend the sense of winter’s calm, even as nature’s landscape bursts around you. Try mindful moments in shaded spaces, connecting with the lingering coolness of early mornings, or simply honoring the slower pace your body craves. I have been finding peace and tranquility with the sounds that April brings in the mornings. The birds and the early morning chill in the air creates a special, calming atmosphere for me. When everything feels still, there is a unique kind of tranquility. As I retreat to nature in the morning, I’m surrounded by the calm, activating my senses and inviting a bit of serenity.

A little help from nature can promote calm; however, true tranquility comes from a deep sense of inner stability—one that isn’t dependent on external circumstances but is cultivated through presence, acceptance, and connection. For a caregiver, this might mean acknowledging the weight of responsibility while also allowing moments of stillness, no matter how brief, to replenish the spirit. It comes from embracing the ebb and flow of life rather than resisting it, finding meaning in both the challenges and the quiet spaces in between.

Spiritual connection can indeed foster peace. At least, that is what nature does for me; it speaks to my soul. Tranquility is often rooted in surrender—letting go of what cannot be controlled, breathing deeply into the moment, and finding solace in simple things, like the warmth of sunlight, the rhythm of breath, or the quiet companionship of nature, especially during moments of resistance.

You may also want to consider where you are placing the control. Is it external or internal? In reference to psychology terms, we can either have an External or Internal Locus of Control. It is about recognizing the balance between what you can influence and what is beyond your control. Each plays a role in shaping resilience. In caregiving, where the emotional and physical demands can be overwhelming, fostering an Internal Locus of Control is about empowerment and ownership. An Internal Locus of Control means believing that your actions, choices, and mindset shape your experience. It cultivates a sense of agency even in difficult circumstances.

Use this time of year, the confidence in bloom, to foster tranquility. If you are feeling a bit unsettled, like I am right now, remember that letting go is a practice, not a destination—one that is nurtured through appreciation, reflection, and compassionate care for both others and oneself. It is the reciprocal relationship that occurs between self and nature.

Happy Spring!

Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director