​Firelight, Folklore, and the Thin Places
 
On this All Hallows’ Eve, we honor what the Celts called the “thinnest of thin times”—a night when the veil between worlds nearly vanishes. The ancient Celts believed the dead could walk among the living, and to ward off wandering souls, they lit fires that blazed through the night.
 
Tonight, we’ll kindle our own fire—not out of fear, but in celebration. Wrapped in blankets, warmed by homemade chili, and surrounded by tradition.
 
Samhain also marks the end of harvest and the Celtic new year. As the wheel turns, this season of rest is welcome for this old gardener. Though I miss the growing season, I cherish this sacred pause before the dreaming of spring begins again.
 
Pumpkin carving has long been part of our ritual, and behind it lies a tale worth retelling. It begins, as many Irish stories do, in a pub.
 
Stingy Jack, a notorious trickster, once outwitted the devil—convincing him to turn into a silver coin to pay for drinks. Jack slipped it into his pocket beside a crucifix, trapping the devil. He freed him only after making a promise: Jack’s soul would never be claimed.
 
When Jack died, heaven and hell both refused him. Condemned to wander, his soul drifted through the dark countryside. People carved frightening faces into turnips and pumpkins to keep him at bay. Some say the devil, in pity, gave Jack a single ember from hell’s fire. Jack placed it in a hollowed-out gourd to light his way—and so the jack-o’-lantern was born.
 
As the fire crackles and the veil thins, I listen—not just to wind and story, but to the stirrings within. Samhain invites us to honor endings and beginnings, to rest, and to remember. In the garden, the soil sleeps. In the spirit, something ancient awakens.
 
Tonight, may flame and chili nourish more than our bodies. May they feed memory, musing, and hope. And if you feel a whisper on the wind, perhaps it’s Stingy Jack—or something deeper calling us to reflect, remember, and renew.

​Thin Times and Rainy Days
Psalm 77:11
"I will remember the deeds of the Lord; yes, I will remember your wonders of old."
 
It is chilly, dark, and wet outside in the Garden this late October morning. The little Garden Doodle is decidedly unimpressed with this old Gardener. She was told we’d have to wait until the rain lets up before our morning walkabout. Her “I don’t like that answer” look said it all. But she’s fine now, curled up in her favorite chair by the fireplace, fast asleep.
 
There’s a certain comfort that goes with a rainy day. A quiet invitation from the Creator to slow down, to let thoughts and emotions ebb and flow with the rhythm of the raindrops. Days like this are a gentle summons to simply be. The fireplace is roaring. The puppy is dreaming. Coffee is warm and steady in hand. Classical music plays in the background. We let our minds wander. We remember.
 
This season is the thinnest of Thin Times. A sacred threshold when memories of those who have gone before draw near. We remember. We feel their presence. We revisit the stories tucked away in quiet corners of the heart. We reflect on the journey, on the lessons etched into our souls like water droplets on autumn leaves.
 
Deuteronomy 32:7
"Remember the days of old; consider the years of many generations; ask your father, and he will show you, your elders, and they will tell you."
 
It’s a good day to fall into those rainy-day thoughts. A good day for another cup of coffee. To settle into a comfortable chair and simply be. To fall into stories, into memory, into grace—and embrace the moment.
 
As the rain whispers against the windows and the fire hums its warmth, we remember the days of old. We consider the years of many generations. We ask, and the stories come, soft and sacred, echoing through the Thin Time.

​In the Quiet Mist
“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10
 
There is a quiet mist in the air this Monday morning in the Carondelet Garden. The weekend brought a gentle, steady rain, a welcome gift as we journey deeper into the golden hush of Autumn. The soil, softened and grateful, receives the moisture like a blessing.
 
It is harvest time in the Garden. The carrots, bold and abundant, grew larger than ever this year, a small miracle beneath the surface, now revealed. Harvest, of course, is about gathering the goodness. But it is also a season of remembering. Of reckoning. Of resting in what has been sown.
 
This is the time of year when the Garden becomes a sanctuary, a place where you can feel the heartbeat of the Creator in every rustling leaf and fading bloom. There’s a sacred hush that settles in, and with it, a sense of belonging. I am getting older. In many ways, I find myself in the Autumn years of my own life. And yet, there is beauty here too.
 
I no longer race the sunset in traffic. I can sit and watch it unfold slowly and splendidly, across the sky. I can be content with where I’ve been, and grateful for what I’ve learned. I’m beginning to understand that today, this very day, is a gift. A chance to do good. To love well. To become more fully who I was always meant to be.
 
Aging, I’m learning, is not about loss. It’s about clarity. It’s about letting go of the need to prove and leaning into the call to be. I used to wonder: Who am I, if I can no longer do what I once did? Does it matter? Do I matter?
 
The answer is yes — but not in the way I once thought. This is the season to look inward. To draw strength not from the flesh, but from the spirit. To trust that the seeds planted long ago are still bearing fruit — in quiet ways, in unseen places.
 
As Paul reminds us in Galatians 6:9:
“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”
 
Keep tending. Keep hoping. Keep harvesting.

​Making Space
"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me."
—Psalm 51:10
 
The Winter Pansies are settling into the Parterre Garden. There’s something magical about them—these delicate blooms with an innate ability to withstand frigid temperatures and snow yet continue to flower. We usually plant them in early October, and they’ll often still be blooming come June. Such a gift.
 
Right now, we’re in the final throes of moving plants and buttoning things up before the inevitable arrival of the first frost. The issue in the garden isn’t beauty, it’s space. We’ve done a fantastic job of filling every nook and cranny with vibrant life. But now, we have a few more plants than we have room for.
 
I’ve been thinking a lot about space lately. Not just in the garden, but in my life. How much space I give to things I have absolutely no control over. I allow people, pain, or problems to take over the limited space I have—and it leaves no room for faith, or hope, or love.
 
You can’t create more space. The space around you, and the space in your schedule, is always the same. What changes is how much of it is already taken up. If you want to experience more space—for joy, for rest, for the things that matter most—you have to let go of what’s already occupying it.
 
That might mean releasing “stuff.” Or stepping back from commitments. Or shedding habits, grudges, or past hurts. If you want more space in your life, in your head, or in your heart, the path is through letting go.
 
It’s time to let some of those things go. It can be painful, yes. But it’s necessary for our well-being. I’m an old man, and some of my “baggage” is getting far too heavy to haul around anymore. It’s time to lighten the load. It’s time to make space.
 
May we all find the courage to clear the clutter, lighten the load, and make space for what truly blooms.

Grace Upon Grace
"From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace."
—John 1:16
 
There’s a chill in the air that confirms Autumn’s arrival. Our first fire of the season crackles in the hearth, warming the room while sunlight spills across the floor. The coffee is brewed, and the little Doodle, having completed her morning walkabout, is curled contentedly in her favorite chair. It’s a gentle, promising start to the day.
 
The Acorn Squash has been harvested. From just four plants in our small urban garden, we gathered a bounty of thirty squash. Grace upon grace. Over the next few weeks, we enter the final harvest season, a time that invites reflection, celebration, and deep gratitude.
 
Gratitude beckons us in during this season of gathering. It reminds us not only of the blessings we receive daily, but also of the sacredness of creation itself. We give thanks for the wisdom the garden offers, quiet, persistent, and generous.
 
I’m looking forward to the rest of the harvest. The Butternut Squash is nearly ripe. The Fall Lettuce is coming along, and the Carrots are ready to be pulled today. As I walk the garden paths, I find myself reminiscing about Spring, when we first mapped out what we hoped to grow. I’m reminded that nothing flourishes without intention, without effort. The garden is a mirror: it reflects the work we’ve done and the grace that meets us there.
 
This October morning whispers a truth I’m trying to live into:
If I want more generosity in the world, I must be more generous.
If I long for kindness and gentleness, I must embody them.
If I seek gratitude, I must give thanks for the abundant grace I receive each day.
 
Nothing happens without the work. But oh, how beautiful the yield when we tend with love.
 
“The secret of life is to let every segment of it produce its own yield at its own pace. Every period has something new to teach us. The harvest of youth is achievement; the harvest of middle-age is perspective; the harvest of age is wisdom; the harvest of life is serenity.

• Joan Chittister

Send the Rain
“You sent abundant rain, O God, to refresh the weary land.” — Psalm 68:9
 
This weekend, the skies finally opened. After weeks of drought, the rain came.  A soft, steady, and sacred gift. Nearly four inches fell, soaking into the earth like grace. I found myself thinking of the worship song by William Orcutt: “We’ve been praying. We’ve been sowing. Now we’re crying. Send the rain!” And it came. Not just to the garden, but to the soul.
 
The replenishing moisture transformed the garden overnight. Flowers perked up, soil darkened with promise, and the air felt washed clean. It was a refreshing touch from above, a reminder that what we sow in faith is never forgotten.
 
Rain has a way of slowing the world down. Its rhythm invites reflection, a pause to sit with gratitude for the nourishment it brings, not just to the earth, but to our spirits. It teaches us to trust the cycles of life, both the storms and the calm.
 
Just as rain nurtures the soil, challenges in life help us grow. They soften our hardened places, stir up dormant hopes, and prepare us for possibility. So let the rain remind us that even the grayest skies hold the promise of renewal. The garden knows this. And so, deep down, do we.
 
As the garden drinks deeply and the weary land is refreshed, may our hearts do the same. Let us receive the rain, not just as water, but as grace. A reminder that even gray skies can bring growth. In every season, the Creator sends what we need.

​We Bloom Until the End
“They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green.” — Psalm 92:14
 
The clouds are gathering, heralding the weekend’s forecast of rain. We welcome this heavenly moisture—it’s the Garden’s baptism, a renewal of soil and soul alike. Everything looks a bit tired and faded just now, but a good soaking will revive the weary stems and refresh the colors that remain.
 
Even as the plants begin their quiet descent into winter, they do not mourn the passing of time. They age with grace, offering their best until the very end. That is their gift. And perhaps one of the gifts of aging—for us—is learning to rest in who we are, rather than grieving who we are not.
 
It’s not aging itself that unsettles us, but the fear of it. The dread of decline, of irrelevance, of invisibility. But life does not end until it ends. And in the meantime, there is so much more to do.
 
When we count age only in losses, we miss the wonder. Aging is not a condition to be pitied, nor a state to apologize for. As an old gardener, I see it as my sacred duty to remain vibrant and bright—to bloom in spirit, even as the seasons shift. I don’t know how much time I have left, but I am determined not to waste it.
 
This is the part of life the Psalmist must have meant when he prayed, “O taste and see that the Lord is good.” There is sweetness still. Even now. Especially now.

Quiet Benediction: Love in the Letting Go
 
“I will cut adrift. I will sit on pavements and drink coffee. I will dream; I will take my mind out of its iron cage and let it swim this fine October.”
—Virginia Woolf
 
The coffee is hot, sweet with cream. I ventured into the Garden this autumn morning to take in its fading beauty. There’s something exquisite in the way flowers surrender to time. In this “Thin Time” of late October and early November, we feel the closing of a season of growth and abundance. The harvest is nearly finished. With the fading light, winter’s cold and darkness begin to stir.
 
The Garden’s slow decay speaks of resilience. It reminds us that decline can reveal inner strength. I’ve grieved the wilting of flowers. The roses are slipping into hibernation, and we remember why we planted them in the first place. We share stories of those who came before us. We remember the good things. We remember the connections that brought joy—and we continue to heal.
 
I’m learning to leave more of the Garden to nature. I no longer tidy it as I once did. I leave it for the small critters to shelter from the brutal cold ahead. And I’ve found beauty in the decay. There’s elegance in the way these once-vibrant plants continue to give back to the earth.
 
Each plant still holds its essence. Its history lingers as the days grow shorter. We watch and wonder. We pray and hope. We hold fast to faith and cling to love.
 
I know I’m in the autumn years myself. Bound by the rhythms of change and time. In this Thin Time, I feel the tug of history—the presence of those who shaped me. The older I get, the more I cling to the stories. Autumn calls us to reflect on who we were and where we’re going. Nothing truly lasts, yet we’re drawn to our shared humanity. We believe that every ending is also a beginning.
 
A bit of faith.
A bit of hope.
A bit of love.
A bit of gardening.
 
“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.”
—Isaiah 40:8

Looking Up: Where Trust Is Sown in Silence
 
It’s a cloudy morning in the Garden. The kind of sky that invites stillness. I spend so much time looking down—at the soil, the roots, the work beneath my feet—that I often forget to lift my gaze and see the grandeur above. The clouds drifting overhead are more than weather; they are quiet teachers of change, movement, and mystery. They carry us into deeper communion with the Creator of all things.
 
I rarely pause to consider the spiritual significance of the sky. Yet this dark, brooding morning mirrors my own emotions and beckons me toward quiet reflection. There’s something sacred in the gloom—a call to embrace the currents of life, to quiet the noise, and to listen for clarity. These moments ask us to dig deeper, to seek understanding not just of the path, but of the One who walks it with us.
 
Today, I gazed upward and listened to the whispers. The clouds seem to speak: Pause. Listen. Be still. They stretch across the heavens like a canvas of mystery, inviting us to ponder the vastness of creation and the intimacy of divine presence.
 
I needed this reminder—to open my heart and feel a sense of belonging again. To hear the whisper of love nudging me toward trust, even when trust feels hard. I look into the dark clouds and search for rain, and in that searching, I find comfort. We are not alone. The Creator is still creating. The Creator is still communicating.
 
So, take a moment. Listen. Participate in the beautiful conversation unfolding all around you—in the sky, in the silence, in the soul.
 
Where trust is sown in silence, grace grows unseen.
“He covers the sky with clouds; he supplies the earth with rain…” — Psalm 147:8

The Grace of Letting Go
Autumn is my favorite time of year that invites reflection, especially in the garden. It’s when I pause to consider what thrived, what faltered, and what lessons quietly bloomed beneath the surface. The shifting light and cooler air seem to whisper slow down, take stock, breathe.
 
This year is wrapping up, and this old gardener is wondering where the days have gone. My “to-do” list still lingers, half-checked and hopeful. Meanwhile, the Dogwood tree outside my window is shedding its leaves in shades of amber and orange. As I watch them drift to the ground, I’m reminded to release some of the burdens I’ve been carrying. Letting go, like the trees do, is its own kind of grace.
 
Autumn is nature’s gentle nudge that change is inevitable—and beautiful. It’s the season of the great turning, where endings and beginnings swirl together in golden light. Lessons lie scattered like leaves, waiting to be gathered.
 
"Anyone who thinks fallen leaves are dead has never watched them dancing on a windy day." –Shira Tamir
 
Autumn’s transformation is in full force now—leaves ablaze in red, orange, and yellow. This visual symphony is more than seasonal charm; it’s a poignant reminder that change can be breathtaking. The falling leaves teach us to release what no longer serves, to make space for rest, renewal, and the quiet promise of what’s to come.
 
"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven." —Ecclesiastes 3:1
 
Autumn reminds us that even in the shedding, there is sacred timing. The garden doesn’t mourn the falling leaves—it trusts the rhythm of renewal. In our own lives, we’re invited to do the same: to release what no longer serves, to rest in the quiet, and to believe that new growth will come. The beauty of change lies not just in what we see, but in learning to let go.

Rain Brings Renewal
Let it rain.
 
Yesterday, I woke up to a light, misty sprinkle in the air, and my heart filled with hope. But the joy was short-lived. The rain passed quickly, leaving behind only clouds. No rain. No sun.
 
Emily Logan Decens once said, “Rain showers my spirit and waters my soul.” This long drought is draining the garden. Watering helps sustain it, but it can’t replace the heavenly moisture that truly gives life and renews. This is no ordinary dry spell—it’s a severe drought. 
 
I feel like I’m in a drought too. A spiritual one. I need something to shower my spirit and water my soul. I’ve been searching for faith and hope in these troubled times. And it’s there—I catch glimpses of it, just like that fleeting sprinkle yesterday. We know this is only a season. The rain will return, gentle and comforting. They’ll remind us that there’s beauty in something as simple as a rain shower.
 
We’ll find comfort when we open our eyes and look for it.
 
“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish… so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire.” —Isaiah 55:10–11
 
Let it rain.
 
In seasons of drought—we are invited to wait with hope. The mist may come and go, the clouds may linger, but the promise remains: renewal is on its way.
 
Just as the garden receives rain and, once again, flourishes, so too will our spirits renew when we open ourselves to grace. Even when the skies feel silent let us believe that faith and hope, like rain, will not disappoint.
 
So today, we lean into the quiet, listen for the whisper of comfort, and welcome the rain—whenever it comes.
 
Let it rain.

Thin Places and Ripening Fruit
Listening for the holy in the hush of October
 
Another warm, sunny morning in the Carondelet Garden. The raspberries are beginning to ripen in abundance, and there’s a gladness that rises with them. Their deepening color, their quiet transformation, it’s as if you can taste the sweetness in the air before the fruit ever touches your lips.
 
These are the moments that matter: the ones when we pause and breathe. As we move through this season, placing one foot in front of the other, we’re invited to slow down and listen—not just to the words spoken, but to the silences between them. In those pauses lie the nuances of conversation, the breath of the Creator, and the quiet turning of the ordinary into the extraordinary.
 
It’s in stillness that we find the Thin Places, the sacred spaces where heaven brushes earth. But we must be willing to stop, to listen, to receive.
 
This morning, I pause. And in the silence, I sense the potential for discovery, for grace, for something more. The garden hums with quiet invitation, and I am reminded: “Be still, and know that I am God.” In the stillness, the sacred becomes visible. In the hush, the holy draws near.

​Thin Places, Deep Wells
 
On this first Friday in October, the skies are blue and the sun is shining. It’s a beautiful morning in the garden, where we continue our watering routine—still waiting on heavenly moisture that’s been scarce these past weeks.
 
I stepped outside to pick up our newspapers. Yes, I’m that kind of old man—I still read the news on actual newsprint, delivered to my doorstep each morning. Though I must admit, it’s becoming harder and harder to wrap my head around the headlines.
 
One of the great tragedies of our time is this: we know more than ever about the pain and suffering in the world, and yet we feel increasingly powerless to change it. I’m convinced we are all broken in some way. But those who embrace their brokenness are the ones who will be transformed.
 
Pain and suffering can reshape us—if we let them. They can carve out space in our hearts for more light to enter. If we identify only with our wounds, we risk living in them and eventually becoming more hurtful ourselves. But if we draw from the deepest well of love within us—if we become that well for others—we tap into a source that never runs dry.
 
 Love begets love. Goodness begets goodness. We can be the change we long to see.
 
“The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” —Isaiah 58:11
 
May we draw from that spring today. May we become like that well to others.

​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.”
 

​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.