The Great Crossing: a Spring Equinox Reflection

This day brings light and dark into perfect balance. Not as an abstraction, but as a felt truth in the soil, in the song of the birds, in the particular quality of this morning's light. The Celtic wheel names this threshold Alban Eiler, the Light of the Earth, a moment when the green world does not ask permission to return. It simply returns. The crocuses do not consult the news cycle. The sap does not wait for peace to be declared before it rises. This is the ancient, stubborn, prophetic act of spring — that life persists, that beauty insists, that the earth herself is not fragmented even when we feel like we are. 

Part of a full ecospiritual lens includes the greater cosmos that holds the Earth. The sky today mirrors something immense moving through the world. The Sun, Mars, Mercury, and the North Node have all been gathered together in Pisces, the last sign of the zodiac; the sign of dissolution, of the ocean before form, of grief and surrender and the mystical dark. And today, the Sun begins crossing over into Aries, announcing a new season of time. 

The astrological new year begins and for a brief window stretching into early April, all planets will move forward together in a retrograde-free sky, as if something within the fabric of life has decided: it is time. Feel that. In a season of so much that feels broken and unmoving, the cosmos and the living earth are in agreement: something is crossing a threshold.

Listen to Mars. The planet of action and will has been traveling through Pisces all month. a tender placement for the warrior. Mars in Pisces is an invitation to move forward without using unnecessary force, to take action on our dreams with sensitivity, following intuition rather than pushing through resistance. In the language of a rewilded faith, this is the spirituality of the mycelium — not the march of armies, but the slow, relentless, underground movement of life toward life.

The world is saturated right now with the energy of force and fragmentation. Mars in Pisces whispers a different way: What if our action came from feeling rather than from fear? What if we moved like water - persistent, patient, finding the way through rather than over? This is not passivity. Water carved the Grand Canyon. Roots split stone. This is the fierce gentleness the earth has always known.

Where Pisces dissolves boundaries, softens identity, and invites surrender into something greater, Aries emerges from those waters with instinct, urgency, and life-force. It is the moment of separation. The first breath. The cry that signals existence. We are collectively standing at that threshold right now. Between the grief of what has been lost and the sometimes terrifying, necessary act of beginning again. The equinox holds both in its body: equal light and dark, neither denied. This is what our Wild Church practice is for. Not to resolve the tension, but to be rooted enough to bear it. To stand at the crossing without fleeing into false certainty on either side. What has been reviewed and refined during these past weeks will begin to unfold with greater coherence and confidence. As the fog lifts, fresh starts and new beginnings become possible. Not because the pain, our own or what we see in the world, has ended, but because something in us has crossed over nonetheless.

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A Ritual Suggestion — The Threshold Walk: Find a doorway, a gate, a treeline, a stream bank — any edge between two kinds of terrain. Stand on one side and name, aloud, one thing you are leaving in the waters of winter: a grief, a false certainty, a way of striving that no longer serves. Then cross. On the other side, speak one seed-intention — not a plan, not a goal, but a direction you are willing to move toward, even without knowing the full path. If you can do this barefoot, do it barefoot. Let the earth receive both the release and the beginning.

A Question to Carry:

What is trying to take its first breath in you — not despite the world's chaos, but somehow because of it?

May you find your feet at the crossing. May the grief you carry not be rushed — Pisces teaches that some things must be felt before they can be released. May the fire of Aries meet you gently, as dawn meets the earth. Not all at once, but steadily, and with warmth. May you move like water this season: not by force, but by flow. And may the wild within you —  that ancient, rooted, uncolonized part of you — know that it belongs to something that has never stopped turning. Go gently and rooted.