The Veil Between Seasons: What Autumn Teaches Us About Change

There is a point in autumn when the season seems to deepen.

The first signs arrive gently. The light changes. The mornings become cooler. A few leaves begin turning at the edges, offering hints of the colours still to come. Then, almost without our noticing when it happened, the landscape is transformed.

The trees that were green only weeks ago are suddenly filled with red, orange, yellow, and gold. Leaves gather along roadsides and across lawns. The air carries the scent of earth, woodsmoke, and fallen foliage. The evenings grow darker, and the warmth of home begins to feel different than it did during summer.

We find ourselves standing between seasons.

Thanksgiving is approaching here in Canada. Mabon, the autumn equinox, has recently passed. Halloween and Samhain wait near the end of the month. Although these traditions emerged from different histories and beliefs, each invites us to pause near the turning of the year.

To notice what has been gathered. To acknowledge what has ended. To express gratitude for what has sustained us. And perhaps to consider what we are ready to release. Autumn seems to hold all of these things at once.

The Season of Gratitude

Thanksgiving often brings our attention toward gratitude. We gather around tables. We share food. We reconnect with family or friends. We reflect on the people, experiences, and simple comforts that have carried us through another year. Gratitude is often presented as something cheerful, but I think it can be more complex than that. We can be grateful for what has remained while still missing what has been lost. We can appreciate where we are while remembering the difficult road that brought us here. We can feel thankful for new beginnings while still honouring the chapters that had to end before those beginnings became possible.

Real gratitude does not require us to pretend that everything has been easy. Sometimes gratitude is simply the recognition that we are still here. Still learning. Still creating. Still becoming.

As I reflect on this particular autumn, I find myself thinking about the things that have recently reached completion and the things that are only beginning to take shape. I have completed the first full draft of Beyond the Bubble II, a project that asked me to look more deeply at what it means to live as a highly sensitive and empathic person. Finishing it brought a sense of accomplishment, but it also created space.

Into that space came the inspiration for another book, The Sacred Year - Celebrations That Connect Humanity. One story is moving toward completion while another is beginning to reveal itself. That seems fitting for autumn.

The Wisdom of the Harvest

The Fall Equinox, Mabon, is often associated with harvest and balance, a time when daylight and darkness come briefly into balance before the nights begin growing longer. The idea of harvest is easy to understand when we think about fields, orchards, gardens, and the food gathered before winter. But our lives have seasons of harvest as well. There are times when we finally see the results of something that began much earlier. A decision made months ago. A conversation that changed our direction. A creative idea that slowly became a finished piece of work. A difficult experience that eventually revealed something about who we are and what matters to us.

Not every harvest can be placed in a basket. Some arrive as clarity. Some arrive as acceptance. Some arrive as the realization that we have outgrown a situation, a belief, or a version of ourselves that once felt familiar. Autumn asks us to notice what has come to fruition. It also asks us to be honest about what did not.

There are seeds that never grow. Plans that change. Paths that end somewhere other than where we expected. This does not necessarily mean that the effort was wasted. Sometimes what we learn while tending something becomes more valuable than the outcome we originally imagined. The harvest is not always what we thought we were growing.

A Thinning Between What Was and What Will Be

As October continues, our attention gradually turns toward Halloween, All Hallows’ Eve (All Saint’s Day), or perhaps Samhain, Día de los Inocentes, Fèt Gede, Undas, and other observances shaped by cultural heritage, geographic location, family tradition, and spiritual or religious belief.

Historically, Samhain marked a transition into the darker half of the year. In many modern spiritual paths, it is also regarded as a time when the boundary between the physical and spiritual worlds feels less distinct. Whether we understand this literally, symbolically, spiritually, or simply as part of the atmosphere of the season, there is something about late autumn that feels different.

The trees become increasingly bare. Gardens return to the earth. Migrating birds cross the changing sky. The familiar landscape begins revealing shapes that summer foliage had hidden. Perhaps the veil between worlds is also a veil between seasons, identities, and chapters of our lives. There are times when we are no longer who we were, but we have not yet fully become who we are going to be. We stand somewhere in between.

These threshold spaces can feel uncertain. We may want to rush through them, define them, or search for reassurance about what comes next. But not every transition provides immediate answers. Sometimes we are simply being asked to remain present while something changes.

Letting Go Without Erasing

The trees are often used as symbols of letting go because they release their leaves each autumn. It is a beautiful image, but letting go in human life is rarely as effortless as falling leaves can make it appear. We carry memories, relationships, disappointments, hopes, identities, and unfinished questions. Some can be released with time. Others become part of us, not as burdens that must be removed, but as experiences that have shaped who we are.

Letting go does not always mean forgetting. It does not require us to deny what mattered. Sometimes it means allowing something to take a different place within our story. A past experience may no longer direct every step we take, but it can still be honoured. A relationship may end, but what it taught us can remain. A dream may change, but the part of us that dared to imagine it was not wasted.

Autumn does not erase summer. It carries summer forward in another form. The seeds have been scattered. The roots remain beneath the ground. The nourishment gathered during the warmer months becomes preparation for what comes next.

Perhaps we do the same.

Change Is a Natural Part of Life

Nature does not treat change as a mistake. The darker evenings are not a failure of the light. The falling leaves are not evidence that the trees have lost their way. The quieting fields are not empty of purpose. Each is part of a larger movement that continues whether or not we fully understand it. We often experience change differently. We resist it because we know that change can involve loss, uncertainty, and the ending of things we were not ready to release.

Yet change can also bring unexpected inspiration.

Recently, an exploration of eclectic spirituality led me to reflect on the many ways people search for meaning. Those reflections helped inspire The Sacred Year, while the atmosphere of the season contributed to the creation of a new candle called The Veil: Between Worlds.

A video, a book, a candle, and the completion of a manuscript may appear to be separate projects. Yet each emerged from a similar place. Curiosity. Reflection. Transition. The desire to understand how we move through the visible and invisible changes of life. Sometimes we do not recognize a new direction when it first appears. It may begin as a passing thought, an unexpected question, or an idea that refuses to leave. Only later do we realize that we were standing at the beginning of something.

Standing Between the Seasons

There is a temptation to see life as a series of clearly defined chapters. One ends. Another begins. But our actual experience is rarely that orderly. Beginnings and endings often overlap. Gratitude and grief can exist together. Completion can bring both satisfaction and uncertainty. Inspiration can arrive while we are still processing what came before it. Autumn makes room for these contradictions.

It is beautiful because it is changing. The colours we admire are part of a process of release. The crispness in the air tells us that colder days are coming. The harvest table reminds us that growth, effort, gathering, and letting go are all connected. Perhaps that is what autumn teaches us about change. We do not have to understand every transition while we are living through it. We do not have to force every ending to become a lesson. We do not have to know exactly what will emerge from the quiet seasons ahead. We can express gratitude for what has been. We can honour what is ending. We can remain curious about what is beginning.

And for a little while, we can allow ourselves to stand between the seasons.

A Quiet Invitation

As you move through the coming Thanksgiving weekend, you might take a few moments to notice what this season is bringing into your awareness.

·       What has reached its time of harvest?

·       What has sustained you through the year?

·       What are you carrying forward?

·       And what might you be ready to place gently behind you?

You do not need to answer every question. Simply step outside for a moment. Notice the colour of the leaves. Feel the coolness in the air. Listen to the sounds of a season moving steadily toward something new. Perhaps the veil between seasons is not something we need to cross quickly.

Perhaps it is a place where we can pause.

A place where gratitude and release meet.

A place where one story ends and another quietly begins.

Wishing you calm, clarity, and much love,

Steve