The other day I had to Google whether watermelon was in season

The other day I had to Google whether watermelon was in season.

That felt... wrong. Like how am I so disconnected from the earth, the seasons, the bounty? Maybe, it's because I am on my phone all the time. Which apparently is also now where I go to seek answers. I ask my phone for answers about nature, whether it's a full moon, and even the quality of my last night's sleep.

Somewhere along the way I stopped knowing. I stopped peeking my head outside the door to see if I needed a coat, and instead relied on an app. Maybe this is why I have such nostalgia and compassion for the 8 year old inner child within me, with grass stains on her knees and berries staining the bottom of her feet. Who spent the summers jumping into lakes and only knowing that she had to start going home for dinner because the lightning bugs had come out.

And then I watched my son spend 97 cents to buy a mushroom for his garden on Roblox.

Meanwhile, there are mushrooms growing on a tree behind our house. And five minutes after he did it, some other person on Roblox stole his mushroom and then signed off.

I found myself thinking, What is happening to us?

We've become so good at building digital worlds that we've started forgetting we're part of a real one.

I don't say that with judgment. I'm as guilty as anyone.

Right outside my window, dozens of pelicans are making their long journey south.

My neighbor's poppies are folding back into the earth after months of color.

The light has started changing in the evenings. And sadly, I haven't seen the seals in a few weeks. Having only been back in the Bay for a few months I haven't quite learned their journey.

It's all happening.

The world keeps turning, season after season, quietly inviting us to notice.

I keep coming back to the same feeling, remembering... something that is much much older.

I want dirt under my fingernails. For my hair to smell like a camp fire. For conversations that aren't interrupted by notifications. For food that's actually in season. For gathering around a table because the earth has tilted a little farther toward the sun. And then making sense of the constellations with the people we love.

There is no magic in the equinox.

But there is magic in paying attention. And paying attention with friends and to each other... that's the medicine. Reminding each other that we are nature too. We have seasons, we need rest, we need to grow, to let go, to grieve, to begin again. And sometimes we need to remind each other of our nature. To remember the wild inside us.

So four times a year, we'll remember.

Let's gather around a table, tell stories, share a meal, pay attention to the constellations, and let the season have its say.

The seasons will do most of the teaching, the gentle holding, the calling each of us home.

We'll bring the food.