This year has taught me how quickly certainty can disappear: in the body, in spiritual life, and in the world around us. As the Equinox arrives, I’m thinking about what remains when the ground shifts beneath us. I keep returning to community, to the people who show up when we cannot carry ourselves, and to a spirituality sturdy enough for the world as it actually is. Maybe hope is less about believing everything will be okay and more about refusing to abandon one another.

We’ve arrived at the longest night of the year. And with it, a kind of stillness that feels both comforting, honest and/also in certain cycles of our lives, maybe hard to hold. The earth leans away from the sun, and everything in the natural world slows down, withdraws, goes quiet. But many of us don’t, or can’t. We tend to reach for answers. For direction. Toward resolution. Even in spiritual spaces, there’s a panic that can arise when things stop moving. We call it a block. We call it...

Last week, the northern lights spread across the sky here in New Hampshire... rare, fleeting, absolutely silent, caused by a violent sun storm, 93 million miles away. I stood alone watching the sky shimmer. It felt like something ancient had stirred and risen... not loud, not dramatic, just… present. Unmistakably alive and impermanent. Later, I kept thinking about how easily I could’ve missed it. If someone hadn't told me to go outside and look. If I hadn’t been paying attention. If I’d gone...