Join a community discovering how living lightly and deeply through seasonal practices of presence can heal both our scattered attention and our relationship with the living world. Because mending the world begins with mending our capacity to truly see it.
There is a peculiar paradox at the heart of a spiritual practice: I have spent years searching for what I've never actually left. I've read books about presence, attended workshops on mindfulness, and developed elaborate techniques for "being here now"—all while standing precisely where I've always been. The mystics, with their characteristic wit, have long recognized this comedy. "Where are you going?" they ask. "You're already there."
But of course, they know something I've only begun to suspect: that although we occupy this moment physically, we've learned to absent ourselves psychically with remarkable consistency. We've become extraordinarily skilled at being elsewhere—dwelling in yesterday's regrets, tomorrow's anxieties, or that peculiar temporal realm where we rehearse conversations that will never occur and mourn futures that were never promised.
The Buddhist teachers speak of this as a kind of homesickness—not for a place we've left behind, but for the ground beneath our feet. We suffer, they suggest, not because we're trapped in the wrong place, but because we haven't truly arrived in the one we're already in.
Autumn knows this truth intimately. Watch the trees in October—they're not trying to be anywhere else. The maple doesn't resist its reddening, nor does it wish for summer's green or anticipate spring's renewal. It simply is what it is, in this moment, letting go because letting go is what this season asks.
Watch yourself for a single hour and you'll discover you're a frequent traveller. Your body sits at the breakfast table while your mind ranges across the day ahead. You drive familiar roads on autopilot, arriving at destinations with no memory of the journey. You speak with loved ones while simultaneously composing mental shopping lists.
This is not a personal failing. We've been exquisitely trained in the art of absence. Our entire civilization operates on the premise that the present moment is primarily valuable as a stepping stone to the next one. Even our attempts at presence often become another form of leaving. We set aside special times for "being mindful"—as if awareness were something to be rationed rather than our natural state.
Yet autumn offers a different instruction. As days shorten and light slants lower, the season invites us inward, not as escape but as return. The squirrel gathering acorns isn't planning next spring—it's responding to this moment's imperative. The migratory bird reads the present temperature, the current day length, and acts accordingly. Presence, autumn whispers, means trusting what is.
Yet beneath this constant leaving, something remains. Call it awareness, consciousness, presence—the simple fact of being here. It's not something we achieve or acquire; it's what we are when we stop trying to be somewhere else.
The practice of returning home, then, is not about building something new but about recognizing what's already present. This is why the contemplative traditions so often use the metaphor of the anchor—not because presence is heavy or fixed, but because an anchor doesn't move you anywhere. It simply helps you recognize where you already are.
Consider the breath—that most fundamental anchor. You've been breathing your entire life without giving it a thought. When you turn attention to breathing, you're simply coming home to a conversation that's been ongoing since your first moment, acknowledging a relationship you've been in all along.
The breath is always here, always now. It doesn't exist in memory or anticipation. You cannot breathe yesterday's air or tomorrow's. In autumn, the very breath itself changes in quality—the air turns crisp, carrying new scents: wood smoke, damp earth, the sweet decay of fallen leaves. Each inhalation becomes a seasonal message, anchoring us not just to the present moment, but to the present season, to the earth's own rhythm of presence and return.
What do we discover when we actually arrive here? Not transcendence or bliss particularly, though these may visit, but something more fundamental: texture. The present moment has qualities that our thinking about it lacks entirely.
There's the weight of your body against the chair, the temperature of the air on your skin, the particular quality of light at this hour, in this season. There's the sound world constantly unfolding—traffic's distant hum, a bird's sudden call, your own breathing. There's the feeling-tone of this moment—perhaps a subtle anxiety, a quiet contentment, a vague restlessness.
The mystics call it ordinary mind, and they mean it both ways. It's common, unremarkable, and it's the fundamental order of things. This is why presence practice isn't about achieving special states but about becoming intimate with what's plainly here.
When we're actually present, we discover we're not separate observers of the world but participants in it. The boundary between "me" and "environment" becomes permeable. You realize that breathing is participation in the atmosphere, that your body temperature depends on air temperature, and that the light you see is actively shaping your circadian rhythms.
Autumn makes this especially vivid. The falling leaves aren't happening "out there"—they're creating the ground you walk on, changing the quality of light that enters your eyes. The cooler temperatures shift your blood flow, adjust your metabolism. You are autumn, autumn is you. Presence acknowledges what's already true.
So, how do we cultivate this sense of homecoming? Not through force or striving, these are just more elaborate ways of leaving. The practice is gentler, more persistent.
We establish anchors—simple, repeatable points of return. The breath, the sensation of feet on ground, the feeling of hands, the sounds arriving at our ears. These aren't special or sacred in themselves. They're simply reliable features of present experience, invitations to notice what's actually happening.
When we find ourselves elsewhere, and we will, constantly, we practise the return. Not with self-judgement or frustration, but with something like kindness. "Ah, I've left again. Here I am, coming back." The return itself becomes the practice.
Autumn teaches this rhythm of return. The geese come back to the same wetlands year after year. The perennials retreat to their roots, returning to what's essential. The light returns to earth as leaves fall. Everything in autumn is about coming home—to the soil, to the root, to what endures beneath surface change.
Over time, the returns grow more frequent. The absences, while still occurring, become shorter. The present moment begins to feel less like a prison of boring immediacy and more like the only place where life truly unfolds.
There's a lovely teaching in some contemplative traditions: individual awakening and collective healing aren't separate projects. When you become genuinely present, you become available—to yourself, yes, but also to others, to the more-than-human world, to the life that's trying to live through you.
Presence is inherently ecological because it returns us to our actual situation—embedded in relationships, dependent on others, participating in larger patterns we didn't create and cannot control. The illusion of separation, so fundamental to our culture's destructive habits, depends on absence. We can only exploit what we don't truly see.
This is why the simple practice of returning home—of anchoring attention in present experience—is quietly radical. It undermines the trance of separation. It reveals what indigenous peoples have always known: we're kin to everything, participants in a vast conversation, dependent on grace we didn't earn.
Autumn embodies this teaching perfectly.
This is home. You've never left. But the journey of recognizing this, of actually arriving where you already are, may be an important journey for you to take.
Here's the practice, simple yet endlessly deep: notice what's actually here. Not what you think about what's here, not your judgements or preferences, not your memories or plans. Just this. The raw fact of being present, in this body, in this moment, on this earth.
Return when you leave. And you will leave—we all do. But return. Again and again.
Step outside if you can. Notice how autumn is present—the angle of light, the temperature on your skin, the particular birds calling at this time of year. The season doesn't split its attention between what was and what will be. It is entirely, completely here. This is your inheritance, too.
Welcome back. The door was never locked.
And autumn, patient teacher, has been waiting all along to show you what presence looks like.
A Resource to Expand Your Understanding
Attention Sanctuary
Creating Supportive Spaces for Presence
Why Create an Attention Sanctuary?
Our environments directly shape our capacity for presence. Research shows that our surroundings either support or undermine our ability to sustain attention. An attention sanctuary is a deliberately designed space that facilitates a return to the present moment—a physical anchor for your practice.
This isn’t about creating a perfect meditation room. It’s about establishing one reliable place where presence becomes easier, where the conditions support your return to awareness rather than pulling you into distraction.
Core Principles
1. Simplicity Through Subtraction
Action Steps: - Remove all items not essential to presence practice - Clear surfaces completely, then add back only what serves - Eliminate visual clutter within your line of sight - Remove or silence all devices and notifications - Take away anything associated with work, tasks, or obligations
Autumn Application: As trees shed leaves, shed unnecessary objects from your space. Let the season’s example guide you—keep only what’s essential for this time of year.
2. Establish Clear Thresholds
Action Steps: - Define your sanctuary’s boundary (door, curtain, rug edge, cushion) - Create a simple entry ritual (remove shoes, light a candle, three breaths) - If space is limited, use a specific chair or cushion as your threshold - Consider a small object you place in position when beginning practice - Mark the transition from “doing” to “being” with a consistent gesture
Examples: - Lighting a candle before sitting - Placing a stone on a table - Drawing a curtain across a corner - Sitting on a specific cushion - Ringing a small bell
3. Position for Seasonal Awareness
Action Steps: - Place your sanctuary near a window if possible - Orient seating to face natural light - Ensure you can observe weather, light changes, and seasonal shifts - In autumn: position to watch leaves fall, light angle lower, evening arrives earlier - Allow temperature changes to be felt (don’t over-insulate from the season)
Specific Guidance: - Best: east-facing for morning practice, west-facing for evening - Acceptable: any window with natural light and seasonal views - Minimum: ensure you can see sky and some natural element
4. Select Appropriate Furnishings
Seating Options: - Meditation cushion: firm, raises hips above knees, supports upright posture - Chair: firm back support, feet flat on floor, no wheels or swivel - Bench: kneeling position, relieves leg pressure - Floor: only with sufficient cushioning and flexibility
Additional Elements: - Small table or shelf at hand height - Blanket for temperature regulation (not comfort/escape) - Timer (analog preferred, or app in airplane mode) - Natural light source plus one warm lamp
Avoid: - Soft couches or beds (invite drowsiness) - Office chairs (carry work associations) - Recliners (promote passivity, not presence)
5. Establishing Rituals
Entry Ritual Design: Choose 3-5 actions, performed in order, every time:
Example Sequence: 1. Remove shoes at the threshold 2. Open window (or curtain) 3. Light a candle 4. Place phone outside space (or turn off) 5. Sit on a cushion 6. Three full breaths 7. Begin practice
Exit Ritual: 1. Three breaths of gratitude 2. Extinguish the candle 3. Brief bow or acknowledgment 4. Return to daily activity
Practice these rituals even when not doing longer practice sessions.
The Ultimate Goal
Your attention sanctuary succeeds when: - You use it regularly without force - Entering it feels like coming home - The space supports presence without effort - You can eventually carry its quality into other spaces - Presence becomes portable—you learn to create a sanctuary anywhere
Begin today. Choose your space. Clear it completely. Sit in the emptiness.
Let autumn’s example guide you: release what doesn’t serve, keep only what’s essential, create space for what wants to emerge.
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-Phronesis-
A way of being in the world that shows concern with one’s life, with the lives of others now & in the future and all ways we touch the world.
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Join a community discovering how living lightly and deeply through seasonal practices of presence can heal both our scattered attention and our relationship with the living world. Because mending the world begins with mending our capacity to truly see it.
