What grows in the dark
Alicia and Sophie on the Algarvian Cliffs
This week I walked the cliffs again after a month away. Summer still hangs in the air, but the land has begun to turn. Tall green grass is pushing up through the dry stalks, and the thyme, brittle all summer, has started to flower. It felt like visiting an old friend.
My body softened. My mind opened toward the horizon and went quiet.
Standing on the Algarve cliffs, with the ocean below and nothing but blue above, something in my chest loosens. I exhale for what feels like the first time in weeks. This is where I find my God: at the edge, where land gives way to water and my worries shrink to their true size. I come home changed.
Out here, stillness. Back there, speed and noise.
When our days accelerate, intention is the first thing to go. We slip into autopilot while our nervous systems absorb the strain. I've come to see nature as a disruptor, the good kind. It interrupts the momentum long enough for me to notice where I am.
Many of the people I work with arrive moving at superhuman speed. What I see, again and again, is that their best thinking waits on the other side of slowing down. It waits for full attention given to whatever or whoever is in front of them. It waits for a little stillness carved out of the noise.
This past week brought the autumnal equinox, one of two days a year when light and dark hold equal weight. It feels like an invitation to stand still and notice where my own life has tipped out of balance.
As much as I love summer, I'm grateful for autumn and winter. For the darkness and the quiet. This is when I plant the seeds of books not yet written and let new possibilities germinate, sheltered from the voices that speak loudly and say nothing.
I turn inward. I rest my mind so the door to creativity can open a little wider. It is a season for slowing down, listening, watching.
We fear the dark and the unknown. For me, this darkness is a womb. I can't see what's forming, but I trust something is there, growing under a blanket of shadow, waiting for the right moment to break ground and surprise me.
Maybe the way the thyme did.
How will you meet the coming season, with its shorter days and longer nights?
