Walking the equinox
Embracing balance and renewal.
This coming Thursday, the sun will rise due east and set due west, and there will be almost exactly twelve hours of day and night. We are about to enter the light half of the year, with brighter mornings and longer evenings.
As the wheel of the year turns, the spring equinox on 21 March brings a perfect balance between light and dark. Alban Eilir, as the equinox is known in the druid tradition, sits halfway between the earth-centred festivals of Imbolc and Beltane. It is a moment to look up to the sky because, like the summer and winter solstices, the spring equinox is governed by the movement of the sun.
Balancing light and dark
Alban Eilir is a moment to consider the interplay between light and darkness, and to find a point of equanimity and stillness in the tensions of life.
Nature is in constant motion. The cycle of the year moves from the rebirth of spring to the exuberance of summer, then from the abundant slowing of autumn to the quiet rest of winter. Each season follows the next, and every part of the year is important.
So it is with life. Each season holds the seeds of the next, and what is buried in the shadows of one period can come bursting forth in the next. Although our culture so often flies to the light, the darkness isn't meant to be feared. What's hidden now can add richness when its time of emergence comes.
Many ancient cultures understood that light and dark were interdependent parts of a whole. Light illuminates the tunnel of a burial mound at midwinter, and summer shadows allow standing stones to point the way. Whether light or dark, its opposing counterbalance is essential to its meaning.
Our modern obsession with perpetual light disrupts ecosystems, pollutes the starry sky and fuels an economic system that exhausts us in the name of 24-hour productivity. As we step into the rhythms of ancestral time, the equinox is a moment to pause and to notice that light and dark are both essential in our lives. We need the brightness of the day, but we need the depth of the night, too.
Walking into the sunset
Alban Eilir is an ideal opportunity to walk from day into night.
Water wraps around my home on three sides, with the River Wyre to the east, Morecambe Bay to the north and the Irish Sea to the west. On the northerly edge of the town, a flat promenade begins that leads towards the sunset, then turns south. Eventually the path leads to the sand dunes at the furthest end of Blackpool. But I only need to walk to the sweeping turn at Rossall Point.
Setting out half an hour before sunset, the last light of the day is already beginning to sink towards the clouds at the horizon. I can see the observation tower at Rossall Point in the distance, marking the point where the sandy shallows of the bay give way to the wilder waves of the sea. The building leans into the wind, seemingly struggling to hold itself up against the gale.
The sea defences at Rossall Point are being renewed. The old wooden groynes long since stopped being effective in holding back the longshore drift that sweeps Blackpool’s sand northwards into the mouth of Morecambe Bay. Deep, wide tyre tracks crisscross the soft sand, and newly hewn granite boulders are left in ramshackle piles, porous enough to let water flood through without scouring deep pits in their leas.
I make my way out onto the damp sand. A flash of light illuminates the clouds as the sun sinks below the horizon. Blue sky gives way to inky greyness. The wind becomes colder. Stars appear as the earth turns to face the darkness. The universe becomes quieter, until all I can hear is the wind and waves.
As darkness surrounds me, I retrace my steps. Bats flit above my head. Lights across the bay begin to sparkle, and the distant hills blur into the night sky. With my hood up and the wind at my back, I can hear the sound of my own breath. I walk the same path, but darkness changes everything.
Carrying light and dark
Mindfully walking the same path in light and darkness can powerfully shift your perspective. I notice the expansive breadth of the day, and the enclosing intimacy of the night. I move with confidence in sunlight, but with only the moon and stars to illuminate my path, I walk more slowly. At night, as the world around me is stripped of colour, my other senses come alive. The cry of a solitary gull pierces the gloom, and I taste the sharp, salt wind on my lips. Darkness invites me to explore the world in a different way.
I notice my inner world, too. The landscape of daylight offers itself to my attention, but at night, my interior terrain comes into sharper focus. Night is the time for dreaming and wonder, terror and awe. Movement in the shadows sends my heartbeat racing, and my unquiet thoughts are not so easily silenced. I can become lost in the vast majesty of the starlit sky, but I can struggle to find my footing.
I always carry light and dark in me. In my younger days, I wanted to banish any last remnant of the shadows in my soul. I sought illuminating certainty, hoping that I could entirely eliminate the gloom of grief, depression and fear. Now, I'm more accepting of the shadows. As the sun moves across the jagged terrain of my life, I understand that deep darkness inevitably follows. And I've learned that there is treasure in that darkness, if I'm brave enough to explore it.
In his book, The Wild Edge of Sorrow, Frances Weller writes, “The work of the mature person is to carry grief in one hand and gratitude in the other and to be stretched large by them.” Sometimes, I walk with a stone in each hand, gently holding the light and dark of my life. Each stone is essential, and they make sense of each other. Trying to throw either away leaves me unbalanced, inflexible and diminished. Like the turning earth, I need both.
Emerging nature
Heading out for an equinox walk is also a chance to notice the blurred boundaries between the changing seasons. Since the earliest shoots of spring growth in the winter cold of Imbolc, the sun's increasing warmth has continued coaxing the earth towards abundant life. Summer is slowly approaching.
Buds are evident on trees now, and leaves are beginning to unfurl from the bare winter branches. Amid the dry stems of last year’s growth, green shoots are pushing up from the warming soil. I hear more birdsong, too, as territory is established and mates are found.
Early moths and butterflies are stretching their wings from their winter cocoons. Insects and bees are beginning their first flights. Blackthorn illuminates hedgerows with splashes of white blossom, and lesser celandine is carpeting the earth with its bright yellow flowers.
Spring’s growth requires the safety and stillness of winter. The cold dormancy of the darkest months gave nature a time of deep rest, when energy was withdrawn into roots and hidden beneath the earth. The activity of spring bursts forth from the dormancy of winter.
The emerging abundance around me echoes the patterns of my own life. Winter was a time of quiet and contemplation, but fresh ideas are springing up fast as my energy returns. Aligning myself with the patterns of nature, the growing world offers me so much inspiration for this coming season.
Walk the equinox
As we enter the light half of the year, Alban Eilir stands as a gateway to balance and renewal. And it's the perfect time to go for a walk.
If you are in search of balance, you might walk a familiar path at sunrise or sunset. Turn your attention outwards to observe the world through your senses, and notice how your experience changes in light and dark. Pay attention to how the shifting patterns of day and night affect your inner landscape, too. What shines in the sun? What sings in the darkness?
You might also enact a ritual walk to appreciate the balance between the light and dark of your life. In preparation, spend some time with your journal. Draw a line down the centre of the page, and on one side write a list of everything in your life that brings you joy. As far as you are able, balance this list with aspects of your life that are sources of difficulty and challenge.
With these thoughts in your mind, walk with a stone in each hand. Talk to them as you travel. Ask what they have to teach you, and what they offer to each other. How does the light illuminate the dark? How does the darkness bring contrast and depth to the light?
You might also notice what is emerging in the world around you. Buds and blossom grow when the time is right, propelled by the rising sap and warmth of spring days. What is growing in your life right now? What can you nurture during the coming months, and bring to harvest as the year progresses?
Walking at Alban Eilir encourages us to be present to this particular moment of balance and renewal. Walking can transform us at any time of year, but I think the gifts of this moment are unique.
And wherever your next step leads you, I'd love to hear more about what you notice in yourself and the world.
I adore that Weller quote. Such an essential book for our times. I'm grateful for the link from that to equinox, and your simple but powerful embodied practices 🙏🏼