Summer’s Golden Hour: Illuminating Autumn’s Threshold

Harvesting the gifts of summer while gently crossing the threshold into autumn.

There is something bittersweet about the end of summer. Here in New England, summer is fleeting, and she is certainly a temperamental Queen. One minute she is warm and welcoming, inviting us outside to soak up every bit of sunshine, and the next she reminds us that nothing stays the same forever.

Summer can be a frenzy of activity, with cookouts, parties, vacations, good-weather adventures, and the feeling that we have to fit everything in before the season disappears.

But not yet.

There is still time.

There is something wonderful about late summer when the crowds begin to thin and the frenetic energy starts to settle. I love going to the beach when I don't need a sticker, when the tourists have gone home and there is room to breathe again. The sand dunes are quieter, the ocean feels spacious, and there is time to wander and notice what has been waiting there all along.

I find myself collecting Goldenrod and little treasures from the beach, gathering pieces of the season as though I am putting together a collection of summer memories.

Have you ever visited Yarmouth Beach on Cape Cod at sunset in late summer? She is abundant with Goldenrod, with the sunset reflecting behind her. It feels almost like a welcome sign—summer’s golden light illuminating the path toward autumn.

AI enhanced photo of goldenrod at Yarmouth Beach Cape Cod

And if we slow down enough, we begin to notice the signs.

The days are shortening. Darkness arrives a little earlier. There is a subtle chill in the air, and the Earth is beginning her gradual turn toward another season. The high-pitched songs of the insects seem to fill my yard almost twenty-four hours a day, but even they are beginning to shift their focus. Their outward activity gives way to gathering and feeding on the last nectar before retreating into the next chapter of their lives.

The plants know.

I can see it happening in my garden.

After a long, hot and dry summer, everything is still remarkably green, but the plants are beginning to look tired and thirsty. They are hanging in there, just like us—hearty stock. Some flowers are passing, leaves are beginning to brown, and the energy that was once reaching upward and outward is slowly beginning to withdraw back toward the earth.

There are still herbs to harvest, but the great rush of summer growing is coming to an end. My flower essence making is winding down too, with only a few late bloomers still offering themselves for harvest.

And yet summer is still here.

The ocean is warm. The late-day sunshine still feels delicious on my skin. Hummingbirds are visiting the garden, and the Moonflowers are glowing beneath the moonlight. I am not quite ready to rush summer out the door.

Summer doesn't end until the end of September.

So when the Labor Day naysayers start telling me that summer is over, my answer is simply, “NOPE.”

There is still plenty of summer left, and sometimes New England even gives us a little gift of warmth later in the season. We may find ourselves swimming again in October, sitting outside on a warm afternoon, or experiencing one of those beautiful days that reminds us that the seasons don't always follow the calendar quite as neatly as we expect them to.

I do love autumn, though.

There is something comforting about returning to routines, welcoming cooler air, pulling out the fall wardrobe, and settling into the rhythm of a new season. I love those beautiful New England days when the air is crisp and the landscape begins to transform. And yes, I am one of those people who gets excited about pumpkin everything.

But summer has taught me something about balance.

Summer can be wonderfully expansive, but it can also be ungrounding. There are so many invitations to go, do, gather, travel, celebrate, swim, camp, visit, and experience everything while the weather allows. This summer, I realized I was feeling burned out by some of that constant movement.

So I slowed down.

I eased up.

I spent more time at home and in my yard, developing Sacred Garden, learning about herbs, making flower essences, tinctures, herbal vinegars, oils, teas, and spices. My medicinal garden became a source of tremendous joy, and spending time with the plants gave me a different kind of summer experience—one that was quieter, more intentional, and much more connected.

And when I look back, I realize I harvested much more than herbs.

This summer, I harvested good memories.

I harvested experiences from a botanical retreat in Vermont, camping trips, a music festival, concerts and gigs, songs and poetry, beach days, ice cream, time with friends, and countless hours spent in my yard developing Sacred Garden.

I harvested experiences.

I harvested joy.

I harvested moments I will carry with me long after summer has passed.

When we think about harvest, we often think about what we have gathered from the garden. But perhaps our personal harvest is much greater than that. We harvest memories, lessons, relationships, beauty, laughter, inspiration, and moments of contentment.

Sometimes we don't recognize what a season has given us until we slow down enough to look back.

That may be one of the greatest lessons this summer has given me.

We can become so disconnected from the natural world that we forget that this rhythm is already part of us. It is in our bones, in our bodies, in our memories, and in the ancient rhythms that have always guided human beings through changing light, weather, food, growth, dormancy, and renewal.

When we begin paying attention again—when we notice the season, the plants, the weather, the changing light, the birds, the insects, and the landscape around us—we can begin to reconnect not only with nature, but with ourselves.

I have always loved creating a seasonal altar in my home, gathering little pieces of nature and displaying them on my mantle. I think of it as nature's altar, a visual reminder of the season we are living in.

Right now, my dried bouquet holds white hydrangea, yarrow, lavender, and tansy.

Each season, I also like to take a little inventory.

What have I experienced?

What have I learned?

What am I grateful for?

What has challenged me?

What am I ready to release?

And what do I want to carry forward?

There is something powerful about taking that inventory before moving into a new season. Rather than simply allowing the calendar to turn, we can intentionally cross the threshold, carrying forward what has nourished us and releasing what has completed its purpose.

This is also where flower essences have become such a meaningful part of my seasonal practice.

For this transition from summer into autumn, I created a blend of Aster, Goldenrod, and Moonflower. Each flower brings its own qualities to the blend, but together they speak to me of transition, illumination, grounding, and moving gently into what comes next.

I also love Red Clover as a reminder of strength and resilience—qualities we sometimes need when navigating change.

There is something wonderfully New England about this time of year, too. We are adaptable and resilient! We can be drinking herbal iced tea while eating pumpkin bread, wearing shorts with a sweater, wearing wool socks with our Birkenstocks, keeping fleece blankets and bathing suits in the car, and somehow thinking all of this makes perfect sense.

We are a hearty bunch.

Perhaps that is another lesson from living here: we learn to adapt.

We learn to welcome the warmth and navigate the cold. We learn to appreciate the rain after the drought and the sunshine after the storm. We learn that the seasons don't always arrive neatly, and that sometimes we have to hold two things at once—the ending and the beginning, the warmth and the chill, the abundance and the release.

We can linger in the warm water, gather the final harvest, and give thanks for the season’s abundant blessings. We can let go of summer’s radiance with gratitude and gently fade into her golden hour as we step reverently across the threshold into autumn’s beauty.

I will savor every last drop of this summer and take a long walk out onto the beach near the sand dunes and collect Goldenrod. I will sit on my porch, listening to the fading songs of the insects, lulling us into our next chapter. I will watch the birds fly, and my garden’s gifts will continue to nourish me as I welcome autumn. I will count my abundant blessings for this season of beauty, learning, and presence.

I am hunkering into the seasonal shift with my eyes and heart open.