A full harvest in a half-empty barn

September grass and the Autumn Equinox

Aspen grove in Loyalton, CA

August is my least favorite month. Which is a bummer, because it’s a month that holds several sacred family celebrations: my birthday, Rory’s birthday, Alex’s and my anniversary, and a lot of birthdays in our extended family.

But out west, it’s also the driest and hottest month of the year. Which means: wildfires. And this year was a doozy in the Sierras.

However, when September comes around, there’s a feel—a smell—in the air. On September 1st this year, I noticed it. That evening, I ceremonially filled the room with the perfect album, imho: October Road by James Taylor. The first track on that album is September Grass.

James is right. The grass takes on a new life in September. In August, it hides under a sheath of golden brown, its lifeblood returning closer to the roots to protect itself against the sweltering rays that pummel it. But in September, the heat retreats just enough to give the grass some respite. The green in the grass returns and it smells a way that only September can.

On September 9th, the Hawk Fire near Reno was contained after burning 15,000 acres including 47 homes and 1 commercial building.

God, have mercy. And thank you, September, for cooling things off and lowering the light.

Today, the Autumnal Equinox has circled back around to us. It’s getting dark by 7pm. The aspen trees are starting to really show off around here. Fall is falling right on schedule.

I’ve been inspired by Tyler Knott Gregson’s prompt today, which is this:

This day has always been about celebrating what we have harvested, but more, the work we put into the seeds we planted, metaphorical or literal. I want to do just that with a simple question, a simple harvesting.

Tell me what you are harvesting, as a result of all your hard work, in your life? What did this harvest teach you, what will it change about how, and what, you plant next growing season?

(PSA: Yes, I highly endorse TKG’s work and think you should become a paid subscriber of his so he can keep doing awesome stuff and you can get more prompts like this in your hot little inbox every week like I do.)

Well, I wanted to take a crack at it and answer it here. Who knows—maybe it’ll help you take some time today and think about this prompt as it applies to your life recently. So here goes nothing…

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The harvest seems real for me this year. I literally feel like I just got done working a big-ass field. As I recently announced, my family and I have been laboring like crazy, literally, moving from Aptos, CA to Loyalton, CA.

Alex and I have moved a lot in our 18 years together. We’re on a pace of about once every three years. We’ve long considered ourselves nomads. Light on our feet. Always wanting to live in a new place.

But now (and I think I can confidently speak for both of us here)…

We’re so done.

Alex, especially, gets the itch to move way more acutely than I do. But the other day, she uttered these words:

Do you think this will be our last move?

(Yes, she actually sounded excited about the idea. To which I responded with shocked silence.)

I explained a bit in my last post about why we decided to move back here. And so far, we’re seeing the fruits of our efforts. Our life feels fuller now. We’re closer to family and friends. We’re having more impromptu get-togethers. We have the seasons again! We finally have enough room in our house to unpack all of our boxes (it’s wild—we’ve unpacked boxes here that we haven’t been able to unpack in almost a decade because we haven’t had room).

But… This harvest feels a bit weird.

When I think of a harvest, I think of a farmer going out and filling her barns with the fruit of her labor. She has all this grain in her barn that will last her all winter long. She sees it and can quantify it. There it is.

But in our case, I just left a really good job. And not for a new higher paying job. Right now, there is no job for me.

Alex’s business is remote, so she’s chugging along. But as for me, I’m standing here looking at my barn. And yes, like I just said, I’m seeing a lot of good stuff in it. But when it comes to my j-o-b, that part of the barn is empty. ‘Tis not the most comforting feeling at harvest time.

Now, there are irons in the fire for me. I’ve gotten word from people in the know that opportunities wait around the corner. And all of them are very exciting. I’m praying so hard, the veins on my hands are ready to burst!

But, anything can happen. Nothing is guaranteed.

So I’m in this liminal time.

(Maybe you’re in the same boat?)

But isn’t this just perfect for the Autumn Equinox?

The harvest is a liminal threshold time. Even for the farmer who stacks their barn full of the best grain ever, anything can happen. Wildfires still burn in the fall. Winters can be brutal. Rodents and creatures that infest for a living lurk in the cracks and crevices in the barn.

When all is said and done, we don’t really know what will happen in the coming days, weeks, months. But for me, when it comes down to the part of my barn that signifies at least some sense of security and sustainability, this precipice time is most certainly… uncertain.

So, all that one can do in this position is… See what God can do.

I take heart knowing that the God of my tradition is one who works and creates ex nihilo (out of nothing). My empty plate is all the God of the Universe needs for Her culinary skills. But boy, do I wish I had a guarantee. It’d be groovy to have a meal in hand, like now.

Can we speed it along here, chef?

I really don’t know how anyone does this thing called life without trust in something/someone bigger than any one human, especially bigger than themselves. When I’m in my most dreadful moments, I realize that this is the inner posture I’m taking: one where I’ve put myself into the role as my own savior; and I’m noticing how utterly insufficient my powers are in that role on my own. Again, my barn is sorely lacking and it’s already September. What. An. Idiot.

But then, the Spirit moves. Sits me down at the table, pours me a cider, and tells me to trust Her. Not just in the future, but now. For I’ve been given enough to make this move to a place where we feel SO at home. I have good health. My family still tolerates and even loves me. The grass is cool and green, the sky is free of smoke, and the aspens are changing. And I played a very small role in all of it.

So here’s to a fruitful Autumn Equinox to you. Whether your coffers are chock full of the best stuff mother earth can provide or if you’re standing with me before a barn with too much room for comfort. God’s work is never done. And we’re never not part of that work.

I know that my labor, thus far, has totally been worth it. God didn’t waste one bit of it through me.

I know that the harvest is here, even if I can’t see it right now.

And as for the seeds I look forward to planting next season? Well, in my family life, they’re seeds of patience and attentiveness. For myself, they’re seeds of humor and grace. For the world, they’re seeds of support and care. And for my vocation, I pray for seeds of a new and enlivened ministry. I’ve learned a lot the last few years. A lot about what my work is about and what it’s not. A lot about what people need (and, more importantly, don’t need). A lot about expectations. And a lot about how to actually enjoy this vocation that burns out so many.

In all, I pray for seeds of new life. The only inconvenient thing is, these come around in a seasonal rotation, not by brute force. You can’t force an oak tree out of an acorn. You can try, sure. No one’s gonna stop you there. And you can tend to the acorn in all the right ways to speed things along a bit. But the budding of that oak tree requires forces far bigger and more mysterious than what you and I can muster.

So with that, happy Autumn Equinox, y’all. (And thanks for the food for thought, Tyler Knott Gregson!)

Drop a comment below (or just reply to this email if you’re a subscriber) about what this liminal day brings up for you.