September 21

Instead of sitting at my desk this morning, I sit at the kitchen table. The sun draws long lines through the bay window and warms my legs while I write.

On the table are a pile of notebooks, my journal, three anthologies of short stories, a pile of sticky notes, and a sharpie.

Tomorrow is the autumn equinox. There will be exactly one hundred days left in the year. A hundred round, perfect days and a new season. Sounds like the start of something.

My mind starts to wander, a balloon swept in the wind. The sky is perfect for it—blue with a hint of cloudy cotton. I want so badly to draw up plans for the rest of the year. Big plans. Grandiose plans. Change-my-life plans. I want to put these sticky notes to use and plot out the next hundred days.

Who do I want to be before next year?

What do I want to accomplish?

Wait, wait, I tell myself. Come back, you’re drifting off again. This is my higher-self talking, my rational self. She’s my trust-the-process self, the there’s-enough-time self. She’s the self that knows I love to make plans and set up systems and dream the biggest dreams only to take one of two paths: follow through and kill myself in the overly ambitious process or flake out.

No, no, I think. No more big plans. I pull the balloon back down, stake it in the ground. How far can I let it fly?

Out the bay window, I see a cottontail dart through the yard then suddenly stop. I’ve watched the bunnies all summer—their stillness, their speed. They hustle then, by instinct, wait.

Of course, there’s something to learn here. Everything is a metaphor. Balloons, bunnies, clouds, earth. I can make a map out of anything.

This last week, the same advice has popped up again and again: Figure it out by doing. Learn as you go. Ideas come when you’re already at work. Action is hope. I think I get it, but what do I know? I used to be a person who did things. Driven. Determined. I took risks, did what I loved, made people tell me no.

I want that part of myself back. The dreamer and the do-er.

The word equinox comes from the Latin aequus, meaning equal, and nox, meaning night. Equinox happens twice a year when the length of day and night are equal. It’s all very poetic and metaphorical. The balance of light and dark. A fulcrum, a perfect support.

But, also, just another day.

And there it is. Tomorrow is just another day, equinox or no, a hundred days left the year or a dozen. Every day is a chance to start again, to reclaim what’s been lost or uncover something new.

Maybe not so big, I hear myself say. Maybe smaller this time. Something small, something doable. Carry a balloon. Act like a bunny. Teeter on the edge of darkness and light. Reclaim what’s been lost. Find grace and magic. Do it once, twice.

And if you fail or forget or lose your way, come home. Come home and start again.