The Sacred Pause Between Seasons

There's something I've been noticing lately—those quiet moments when October hasn't quite decided if it's still September, or when March can't make up its mind about winter. You know the feeling: stepping outside and sensing something has shifted, though you can't quite put your finger on what.

I used to rush past these moments, eager to get to the "good stuff"—the full bloom of spring, the golden heat of summer, the dramatic show of autumn leaves. But lately, I've been lingering in these in-between spaces, and I'm discovering they might be the most sacred of all.

The Wisdom of Waiting

Nature doesn't hurry. Ever notice that? A tree doesn't panic when its leaves start to yellow. It doesn't frantically try to hold onto summer or desperately push toward spring. It simply... transitions. There's this beautiful unhurried quality to how seasons change hands, like watching a careful dance where each partner knows exactly when to step forward and when to step back.

We've forgotten how to do this, haven't we? We've become masters of the sprint between seasons—rushing from summer vacation straight into fall productivity, leaping from holiday chaos directly into New Year resolutions. But what if we're missing the whole point?

Those liminal moments—when the air holds both warmth and coolness, when light slants differently but you're not sure why, when something unnamed is stirring—those aren't empty spaces to fill or awkward pauses to hurry past. They're invitations.

What Lives in the Pause

I started paying attention to what happens in my body during these seasonal shifts. There's this settling that occurs, like my nervous system finally exhales. The relentless pushing energy of summer begins to soften. The tight grip of winter starts to loosen. And in that softening, in that loosening, something new becomes possible.

The pause gives us permission to stop performing our lives and start feeling them instead. It offers us space to digest what we've experienced before hungrily reaching for what's next. Most importantly, it reminds us that we don't have to be the same person in every season.

Practicing the Pause

You don't need a meditation retreat or a cabin in the woods to practice this (though those sound lovely). Start small:

Step outside at dusk. Really step outside—not just to check the mail or walk to your car, but to stand and breathe and notice. What's different from yesterday? From last week? Let your senses report back to you without your mind immediately categorizing or judging.

Ask yourself: What am I ready to release? Not in a dramatic, life-changing way (unless that feels right), but gently. Maybe it's a habit that felt good in summer but feels heavy now. Maybe it's a way of being that served you last season but doesn't fit this moment. Write it down. Say it out loud. Let it go.

Create tiny rituals. Light a candle when the sun sets earlier than you expect. Make tea with seasonal herbs. Rearrange something in your living space. These small acts of recognition tell your deeper self that you're paying attention, that transitions matter.

Rest without earning it. This might be the hardest one. We've been taught to justify rest, to earn downtime through productivity. But trees don't produce their way into winter rest—they simply rest when it's time to rest.

A Practice for Right Now

Here's something you can try tonight, or whenever you read this: Find a window. Look outside. Don't look for anything specific—just look. Breathe three times, slowly. On the third exhale, ask yourself: "What season am I in right now?" Not just in the calendar, but in your life, your heart, your becoming.

Trust whatever answer comes. You don't have to do anything with it. You don't have to fix it or change it or make it mean something. Just acknowledge it, the way you might nod at a neighbor passing on the street.

The Art of Beginning Again

Every season teaches us how to begin again, but the pauses teach us something even more valuable: how to end well. How to complete something without rushing toward the next thing. How to let one chapter close before frantically starting to write the next.

I think about this when I watch leaves falling—how they don't cling desperately to branches, but release with such grace, trusting that their letting go makes room for something new. Not better, not worse—just new.

We're all constantly in some season of becoming. The pause reminds us we don't have to become urgent or efficient or according to anyone else's timeline. We can become the way seasons change: gradually, naturally, beautifully, in our own time.

The next time you feel that subtle shift in the air, that unnamed stirring, that sense of being between one thing and the next—pause. Really pause. Let yourself exist fully in that liminal space. Let it teach you what it knows about patience, about trust, about the art of changing slowly.

The pause is not empty time. It's a fertile time. And you, standing right in the middle of your own becoming, are exactly where you need to be.