in a different light
Edition no. 15 · november 8, 2026
What a week! For a week that got dark awfully early, it certainly left me feeling light.
The clocks went back last Sunday, and just like that, five o'clock began looking entirely different. The afternoons seem to slip away before I'm quite ready to let them go. Even a week later, I'm still surprised when I glance out the window and find the evening already settling in.
That little change inspired this week's theme, In a Different Light.
I've been thinking about the remarkable way our eyes adjust to darkness. Imagine walking into a dark room after being somewhere brightly lit. At first, you can hardly make out what's around you. But give your eyes a little time, and gradually, the room begins to reveal itself. Familiar shapes return. You start to notice details you couldn't see when you first walked in.
Nothing in the room has changed. You've simply had time to adjust.
It's curious how readily we understand that our eyes need time to adjust, yet how quickly we expect ourselves to do the same. A change in routine, a new chapter, even something we've been looking forward to can take a little getting used to.
And speaking of things I've been looking forward to, this weekend was a particularly special one!
On Saturday, I had the absolute pleasure of leading Strength + Stillness, a two-and-a-half-hour workshop at Orleans Yoga. Separate from our regular classes and this week's theme, the afternoon was an opportunity to explore the relationship between strength and stillness in the body.
We played with different kinds of muscular work using weights, fluffy (Pilates) balls, resistance bands, and our own body weight, before gradually making our way into myofascial release and Yin. I also wrote two poems especially for the workshop, exploring the strength it sometimes takes to be still and the stillness we can find within strength. Perhaps I'll share those here sometime.
I left feeling so energized, inspired, and tremendously grateful. What a fabulous community of people who continue to show up and practice with me! And to have so many of my fellow teachers in the room, generously giving up part of their Saturday to support me, meant more than I can say. There is something incredibly special about learning and growing in a community where people genuinely show up for one another.
And the weekend wasn't finished yet.
I ended the week with a fantastic daylong retreat led by the wonderfully joyful Jenna. After spending so much time planning, preparing, and guiding practices, what a treat to simply arrive as a student. To enjoy the experience someone else had so thoughtfully put together and spend an entire day doing something just for myself.
A very welcome reminder that making time for yourself is every bit as important as making time for everything else.
So, while the evenings may be getting darker, I'm heading into this new week feeling awfully bright.
The practice
There's a little moment between finishing one thing and beginning another that often goes unnoticed.
Coming home after a long day. Leaving a conversation.
This week, see what happens when you give yourself just one minute before moving on.
Find somewhere comfortable to sit.
Feel your feet against the floor.
Notice your breath without asking it to change.
Allow your attention to return to where you are.
And gently ask yourself:
What do I need as I move into what's next?
Perhaps you notice something. Perhaps nothing seems particularly different.
Either way, you've given yourself a moment to arrive before asking yourself to begin again.
The Soundtrack
The Poem
Standard time
The clocks went back on Sunday.
By five, the sun was drawing
her last gold thread
through the pear tree.
You're early, I called.
Only by your clocks, said the sun,
turning toward the moon
rising over the chimney.
She thinks I've taken her garden,
the sun told the moon.
Have you? asked the moon.
Not a leaf.
Only my light.
Then I'll sit with her awhile.
The moon settled on the roof
and began untangling
the stars from her hair.
What frightens you? she asked.
That a place I know by heart
can disappear
while I'm standing in it.
Tell me what's there, she said.
So I told her about the pear tree,
the branch that bowed
beneath February snow,
where a wren brought grass
by the beakful in May.
The moon drew a star from her hair
and let it go.
Slowly, against the sky,
the tree's crooked shoulder appeared.
I told her about the garden gate,
its blue paint worn thin
where my hand always reached,
the latch that snagged my sleeve.
Another star slipped from her fingers.
Beneath the ivy,
the rusted hinge held
a fleck of its light.
I told her about the stones
that lined the path,
how I'd carried them home from the beach,
sand still hiding
in the seams of my pockets.
She loosened the tangle
at the nape of her neck,
and a handful of stars
rose from the knot.
Along the path,
the pale curve of one stone,
then another, softly furred with moss,
and in a little saucer of rain
the moon's face trembled.
By then her hair had come loose
around her shoulders,
and the sky was full
of the stars she'd set free.
I could see the smallest things now,
things I'd passed a hundred times
in the full light of day.
The spider's silk
stretched between two branches.
The little hollow in the wood
where the gate had rested
against its post for years.
I walked down the path
and lifted the gate.
It gave its familiar sigh.
I thought I'd lost it, I whispered.
Oh, said the moon,
brushing the final stray star
from her shoulder.
I've been sitting here with it
all evening,
while your eyes learned the dark.
THE THROUGHLINE
I think one of the loveliest things about this week was the reminder that even familiar experiences can have something new to offer.
I've practiced alongside many of the people who joined me on Saturday, and yet sharing that afternoon brought its own little discoveries. Then, at Jenna's retreat, I had the chance to experience a practice from the perspective of a student, with no responsibility beyond showing up.
It reminded me how much I still have to learn, and how good it feels to make room for that learning.
I also keep returning to the image of the darkened room. Our eyes don't need convincing that the furniture is still there. They simply need a little time before they can see it again.
Perhaps there's something worth borrowing from that.
Not every adjustment will be comfortable. Not every change is one we would have chosen. And there's no particular deadline by which we're supposed to feel at home in something unfamiliar.
Sometimes, a little more time is exactly what is needed.
SOMETHING TO CARRY INTO YOUR WEEK
Where in your life might you give yourself a little more time to adjust?
Smile & sigh. Yay.
Let’s make a good day of it,
Bevin
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