Hello dear readers. I come to you this month at the changing of seasons with a brief dispatch.

We’ve crossed the threshold of the autumnal equinox and can now look toward winter. We see it there ahead, at the end of a short hallway glazed in crimson and gold panes: the great cavern. It is dark and expansive, frozen silent, inviting, but there’s no need to hurry. We can linger a while here in this vivid passage.

The equinoxes are doorways between seasons, each opening to a short passage; a liminal space. One is lit crimson in autumn, as mentioned, the other emerald in spring.

A great fire burns in the canopy, silhouetting the foreground to black and lighting the dark sky gold and orange. But in the blaze there is a hint of green, there at the edges, as if a remnant of a preceding season. Is it a fire or is it just green draining from the canopy, revealing what was there all along?

Fire by Yayoi Kusama, ca 1954 (detail)

Equinox comes to us from the Latin for equal and night. In Old English it was efnniht, later even-night — a balance of the dark and light portions of the day. But neither of the equinoxes feels, to me at least, like a balance of anything other than light. The tumult of this season changing has left me teetering, back on my heels, reaching for a steadying hand. You too, maybe?

It isn’t lingering that tires us out and knocks us off balance, but pressing ahead at all costs. Perhaps the kinetic balance at the equinox is a sign rather than a symptom. The tumult calls us to linger. The liminal passage is beautiful, after all, and the panes are brilliant. The cavern of winter is just there, and will be in time.

Meanwhile night ascends. I trust that we will be able to find our way back to even in the dark.

Thank you, as ever, for reading along with these letters. And until next month, keep cozy.