Embers in the Field

August always feels like a doorway; one hand still holding the warmth of summer, the other reaching toward whatever autumn has waiting. As we wind down the summer, start planning Back-to-School rituals, and the sun begins to sink lower earlier each day, I realize something fundamental: we are not at the end of summer or the beginning of autumn—we are at the threshold.

Fields have shifted from green to soft gold. Cicadas, crickets, dry grass, and long shadows all make up the atmosphere of our evenings. The fireflies have long departed us for the year. Heat is still present, but it’s subtly starting to change. Our gardens are full, but not ready to harvest.

Most people hurry through thresholds; doorways exist to pass through, not linger. Hallways connect destinations, and waiting rooms are tolerated. Yet thresholds have their own kind of beauty. They're places where two worlds touch. August asks us to stay there for a little while. Not to rush toward pumpkins. Not to cling desperately to July. Just to notice where we are.

Nature seems surprisingly comfortable existing between seasons.

Perhaps people could be, too.

Look around: the leaves haven’t all turned yet, the flowers haven’t quite faded, gardens are still producing, and fields are ripening. Yet, at the same time, birds are starting to gather, mornings are beginning to carry a hint of coolness to them, and even the sunsets are beginning to change. Nothing happens overnight. Nature doesn't demand immediate transformation. It allows overlap. Here, summer and autumn coexist for a while.

We often recognize thresholds only in hindsight. Things change, and it’s challenging to pinpoint the exact moment a pivot was made. We finish school before knowing what comes next, and we start a new career while still clinging to the old one. There’s a moment of “now what” when something finishes, and it’s uncomfortable to linger in that place. We want to rush through the “now what” instead of seeing the beauty and freedom of simply existing. We often pressure ourselves to “arrive.” Life spends far more time in transition than arrival.

Thresholds are uncomfortable because they don't offer certainty. But they offer perspective. When you're between seasons, you can still see where you've been and begin to imagine where you're going. Standing between both creates gratitude. You don't have to force clarity. You don't have to decide everything today. Sometimes your only work is to stand still long enough to notice what is changing.

This month, I’m inviting you to sit with me just a little bit longer. Notice things you wouldn’t notice. Head into August without rushing the evenings. Spend time in the garden. Let your conversations flow. Maybe observe your routine and see where you can add one little bit of joy. And maybe most of all: observe the quiet endings and small beginnings. Stand in the doorway with me just a little longer.