After facilitating my first public Sacred Ceremony in June, I've taken a bit of time. A short sabbatical. Not because I've stepped away from the work. Quite the opposite.
This year's double Fire invited me to go deeper into the elements than I've ever gone before. And within this invitation, there was a subtle asking. An invitation to listen longer.
At the beginning of Summer, I shared insights about the Officials of the Fire element. Heart. Small Intestine. Heart Protector. Triple Burner. In doing so, I believed I was following my usual workshop prep. Write, share, teach, facilitate.
And yet, at some unmarked moment, it dawned on me. I had been prepping to teach Fire and simultaneously, Fire had been prepping to teach me.
This year carries something unusual. In Chinese cosmology, we are moving through a year of Double Fire. Fire in the heavens. Fire on the earth (via the Horse). As the seasonal Fire of Summer arrived, an additional log was tossed on. Further amplifying the elemental influence.
For months, I've approached this energetic unfolding through the lens of a teacher and facilitator.
How do I translate ancient wisdom into something useful?
How do I best convey this translation?
How do I offer practices that help others heal?
All fair questions. Yet none touched on the deepest ask, which arrived quietly, seemingly unannounced.
What if transformation isn't something we make happen? As facilitator, teacher, participant, reader, or another human being. What if our role is to cultivate the conditions in which change naturally unfolds?
The more time I spend observing nature, the less interested I become in forcing. Anything. The gardener cannot push seeds to grow. The soil cannot convince roots to deepen. The oak does not strain toward maturity. Each simply participates in creating the conditions for the next movement.
“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”
As I've continued my study of the Five Elements, I've recognized a pattern (that I hadn't fully appreciated before).
The seasons don't simply follow one another. They prepare one another.
Fire transforms. It illuminates. It reveals what has been hidden, inviting discernment. It warms, it ripens. It reminds us who we are and allows us to express our true nature.
Then comes Late Summer. The container. The nourishment. The grounded stability that allows transformation to become rooted, without force, without dissociation.
Then Autumn arrives. Autumn isn't asking us to simply release. It's asking us to trust what Fire has revealed. The trees don't wrestle their leaves to the ground. They simply stop sending energy where it is no longer needed. The leaves fall. Not as an act of loss. As an act of wisdom.
Then Winter. The quietest season. The season modern culture often resists. Yet within ancient Chinese philosophy, Winter is not empty. It is the season of returning.
Returning to stillness. Returning to essence. Returning to the deep reservoir of potential that has been there all along. To remember who we were, before so much accumulated around us.
And then, almost effortlessly, Spring arrives. Not to invent something or become someone new. But to express what Winter helped us to remember.
The more I sit with this cycle, the more I realize it isn't simply describing nature. It is describing a living spiral, one that continuously cultivates the conditions for us to transform, nourish, release, remember, and begin again.
It seems so simple, so obvious, when written in plain text. Yet living it. Is another matter entirely.
This year of Double Fire has reminded me of something I didn't expect. I am still a teacher. And I am, and always will be, a student. Perhaps those two roles were never separate. And perhaps the most grounded teachers are the ones who remain deeply committed to being taught. By nature. By their participants, clients, and readers. By their own lives. And by the quiet wisdom that continues to reveal itself, season after season.
Thank you for allowing me the space to be both.

