10.01.2025 | Ordinary Wednesday

​October as a Thin Place
October arrives like a whispered invitation. The air cools, the leaves begin their slow, fiery descent, and something ancient stirs beneath the surface of things. In Celtic spirituality, this season is known for its “thin places”—moments and locations where the veil between the physical and spiritual worlds grows diaphanous, where heaven brushes earth and the sacred feels startlingly near.
 
Marcus Borg, in The Heart of Christianity, describes thin places as intersections between two layers of reality: “October, with its golden hush and deepening shadows, seems to cradle these moments. The rustle of leaves, the scent of woodsmoke, the early twilight, all invite us to pause, to listen, to notice.”
 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning once wrote:
“Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God,
But only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round and pluck blackberries.”

​Jeremiah 6:16 beckons us: “Stand at the crossroads and look and ask for the ancient paths where the good way lies; and walk in it and find rest for your souls.”
 
October is a crossroads. A turning. A sacred pause. May we stand in it with reverence. May we ask for the ancient paths. And may we—graced and willing—take off our shoes.
 
I felt this recently in my own garden. I stepped outside and the air was hushed, almost reverent. A monarch hovered near the Lantana, lingering longer than usual. I stood still, on dew-damp earth, and for a moment, I felt the veil lift. Not dramatically, not with fanfare—but quietly, like a breath held and then released. It was as if the garden itself whispered, “You are not alone.” That moment stayed with me all day, a thin place tucked into the folds of ordinary time.