Celebrating ‘Long Summer’

“In the Chinese cal­en­dar there is an extra sea­son that blooms between the spaces of late sum­mer and autumn. Long Summer, as it’s called, is a lim­i­nal sea­son — one that lasts the small handspan of time between the end­ing of August and the equinox arrival of fall. It is a sacred pause for inte­gra­tion. An invi­ta­tion to come back into a state of bal­ance after the hub­bub of sum­mer, and find a place of peace­ful neu­tral­i­ty before the wan­ing of autumn begins.” ~Asia Suler

Hades, the god of the under­world, fell in love with the beau­ti­ful Persephone and kid­napped the god­dess of spring, impris­on­ing her in the nether­world. Demeter, Persephone’s moth­er and the god­dess of agri­cul­ture, became so dis­traught that she plagued the world above with drought, bit­ter cold, and unre­lent­ing dark­ness. After many months with­out growth, Zeus begged his broth­er Hades to allow Persephone to return to her moth­er for half of each year. Persephone and Demeter are reunit­ed on the spring equinox, mark­ing the start of the grow­ing sea­son. All through the spring and sum­mer long, Persephone dances, sings, and feasts. 

As August clos­es its door and time strides toward fall, Persephone grows ever more rest­less, too wired to rest but too exhaust­ed from a sea­son of fes­tiv­i­ty to focus. But long sea­son only lasts a few weeks, its coda the autum­nal equinox. On that day, Persephone returns to her hus­band in the dark­ness of the under­world. Here, she lets go of the mer­ry­mak­ing and grows reflec­tive and still.

I always feel a bit itchy this time of year too. A Leo of the first kind, sum­mer is my every­thing. It takes these weeks of long sum­mer to ful­ly inte­grate the wild rev­el­ry of the last months and move inten­tion­al­ly toward dark­er, cool­er days. 

Our cul­ture marks Labor Day as summer’s sym­bol­ic end, yet the earth itself insists on its own rhythm. The trees do not rush their col­ors. The har­vest does not come all at once. Nature moves with patience, remind­ing us that end­ings and begin­nings often over­lap. We, too, live much of our lives in this space between what has been and what is not yet ful­ly here.

In these in-between days, there is an invi­ta­tion to notice small mir­a­cles. The last fire­flies flick­er, hold­ing on to their glow. Fields of gold­en­rod and asters bloom bold­ly, offer­ing bees their final ban­quet. Migrating birds gath­er in rest­less flocks, chart­ing invis­i­ble maps across the sky. Each of these is a sig­nal that life moves for­ward not in abrupt shifts, but in gen­tle unfolding.

Yet even as I notice the mag­ic of the com­ing sea­son, I still feel sad to close the door on the pass­ing one. This is called antic­i­pa­to­ry anx­i­ety, or the wor­ry that we will be com­plete­ly unpre­pared for the chal­lenges the future will bring. Anticipatory anx­i­ety tells us that joy can only lie in one place, when true peace lies every­where. This false dichoto­my says if we love one sea­son, we won’t pos­si­bly find joy in anoth­er. But hap­pi­ness can lie in flip flops and slip­pers, ice cream and pump­kin pie, pool par­ties and fall fes­ti­vals, bud­ding trees and trees stripped bare.

As my zin­nias go to seed and the tall grass­es turn brown, I’m remind­ed that we’re basi­cal­ly plants with more com­plex emo­tions, absorb­ing summer’s sun­light to cre­ate and store ener­gy, then shed­ding what is no longer need­ed as autumn knocks. The weeks between Labor Day and the autum­nal equinox are a soft, gold­en pas­sage. They are proof that tran­si­tions can be beau­ti­ful, that we do not have to leap from one state to anoth­er, but can walk slow­ly, notic­ing, breath­ing, and receiv­ing. If we pay atten­tion, we might find that these in-between days are not just back­ground, but some of the most sacred days of the year.

In this lim­i­nal space of long sum­mer, ask yourself: 

What did you har­vest these past few months? 

What should you release this fall?

How can you cel­e­brate both?