Today, for a single day, the light and the dark are equal. Twelve hours of each, more or less, wherever you are on the earth. It is the autumn equinox, which many people now call Mabon, and it is one of my favourite moments of the whole turning year.
It is also, I have noticed, the moment when most women I know are at their busiest.
September's great lie
September has a way of pretending to be January. The children go back to school, the offices fill up again, the diaries swell. Everything is fresh starts and new routines and resolutions made on the train. Somewhere along the way we absorbed the idea that autumn is for doing more.
But look outside. Nothing in nature is starting anything right now. The swallows are leaving. The leaves are beginning, just barely, to turn. The apples are falling whether anyone picks them or not. The whole world is gathering in, slowing down, preparing for rest.
The equinox does not ask you to do more. It asks you to find the balance point, and stand on it.
What balance actually means
Balance has become one of those words that has been used so often it has almost worn out. We talk about work-life balance as if it were a scale to be perfectly levelled, and then feel terrible when it is not.
The equinox offers a different picture. The balance of light and dark lasts only a day. Tomorrow the dark will begin to win, and it will keep winning until midwinter. The equinox is not a state to be maintained. It is a moment to be noticed, a pause between two movements, a breath at the top of a swing.
The archetypal energy here is that of the Scales, and of the Gatherer. The Gatherer knows what she has. She counts her harvest honestly, not greedily. She sees clearly what the year has given her, and what it has taken. She makes her peace with both.
Taking stock in the house
For me, Mabon is the true beginning of the domestic year. The time when the house turns its face inward again, and we start to prepare the nest for the dark months. It is a very practical festival, in the best way.
Here is what I do in the week around the equinox:
- Count the harvest. Literally, if you have a garden or allotment. Figuratively, if you do not. Walk through the house and notice what the summer has brought in: new objects, new books, a new habit, a friendship, a lesson.
- Fill the larder. Jam, chutney, a jar of dried herbs, a sack of good potatoes. Even one jar of something you made yourself changes how the house feels going into winter. It says: we are provided for.
- Bring back the warmth. This is when the throws and heavy curtains I took down at midsummer come back out. Wash them first. Air them if the sun allows.
- Light the first fire. Or the first candle at supper. Mark the return of the dark with a small, deliberate flame.
The equal night
On the evening of the equinox, I like to sit with the light and the dark in the same way. As the sun sets, I think about what has been in the light this year: the things I have been proud of, the things that have gone well, the parts of myself that have been visible and welcomed.
Then, as it gets dark, I think about what has been in the shadow. What I have not wanted to look at. What has not gone to plan. What I am quietly grieving.
I try not to prefer one over the other. For one evening, they are equal. Both are part of the harvest. Both need to be gathered in before winter.
A gift for the dark half
Before you go to bed tonight, choose one thing you would like to carry with you into the dark half of the year. A word, an intention, a quality. Not a goal. Goals are for spring. This is more like a lantern, something to see by when the nights are long.
Mine this year is enough. Enough light. Enough harvest. Enough doing.
Put the kettle on. Lenisa has already claimed the warm spot by the stove, and I intend to join her.