Between Fire and Soil: Balance As A Spiritual Practice

At this point in the summer, the world around us is in full motion. Though the sun has begun its slow descent from the solstice peak and harvest season will begin soon, the energy of the season is still high and intense. The land is alive—lush with green, swelling with fruit, and pulsing with the activity of insects, animals, and humans alike. It is a time that calls us outward, into gardens, into gatherings, into productivity, into purpose. And whether or not someone follows the Wheel of the Year or identifies with a formal spiritual path, this energy is felt. There’s a cultural and environmental momentum that says, “Move now. Act now. Show up. Stay visible. Stay active.” It’s easy to internalize that message. The long days, full calendars, and heightened energy create a sense that we should be doing something meaningful with every moment.

But there’s a deeper rhythm in this season—one that doesn’t speak as loudly or as quickly, and that often goes unnoticed unless we intentionally slow down to hear it. Beneath the blaze of the sun and the visible flourishing of the earth lies a quieter invitation: to rebalance, to check in, and to make sure we are not mistaking motion for meaning. While the first part of the growing season is filled with planting, initiating, and building, this middle phase—this midsummer threshold—is where the work of tending begins. We shift from beginning things to sustaining them. We water what’s been planted, we prune what’s outgrown its space, we monitor what needs support. This is not passive work. It is not lazy. It is essential.

Spiritually, midsummer to the harvest season offers us the opportunity to reassess where our energy is going and why. It asks us to consider what we’ve been pouring ourselves into and whether we’re doing so from alignment—or from pressure. And it reminds us that rest is not the opposite of sacred action. It is a necessary counterpart to it. Just as the sun requires the balance of night, just as growth requires the stability of rootedness, our spiritual and emotional lives require both movement and pause, both tending and release. There is no shame in needing rest, only wisdom in recognizing when it’s time to offer it to ourselves.

In many earth-based paths, the season between solstice and harvest is not only a time of physical labor, but of personal accountability. What is thriving in your life because you’ve nurtured it? What is struggling because it hasn’t received enough attention—or because it wasn’t meant to grow in the first place? What have you been carrying that no longer fits the energy you have available to give? These questions arise not from judgment, but from an invitation to live in greater harmony with the cycles we claim to honor. The land doesn’t force itself to bloom beyond its limits. It follows the flow of light, heat, moisture, and need. And we, too, are part of that ecology.

Many of us move through this season with a growing sense of fatigue—not just from physical labor, but from emotional output, spiritual responsibility, and the invisible weight of holding everything together for too long. Even those not in formal leadership roles experience this: parents managing unpredictable routines, workers navigating summer deadlines, caregivers trying to stay connected while honoring their own limitations. This isn’t about weakness. It’s about being human. And when we ignore the call to rebalance, we begin to lose not only our energy, but also our clarity and connection.

Even physiologically, this time of year affects us more deeply than we often recognize. The long hours of sunlight, the pressure to be social or productive, the heat that taxes our systems—all of these contribute to overstimulation of the sympathetic nervous system, the part of us designed to act, respond, and stay alert. When it stays activated for too long, we experience sleep disruption, inflammation, emotional reactivity, and the creeping onset of burnout. But when we tend to our bodies as sacred parts of our spiritual path, we begin to understand that slowing down, drinking water, sitting in shade, and saying no are not indulgences. They are forms of sacred remembering.

The midpoint of summer is not asking us to abandon the fire of our commitments or the joy of being active in the world. But it is asking us to pace ourselves. To know the difference between necessary engagement and performative overextension. To let presence be a form of offering. And to trust that the things we care for—plants, people, projects, and our own inner selves—will flourish more deeply when we show up with grounded energy rather than scattered urgency. This is a lesson that applies to every tradition, whether devotional, animist, secular, or somewhere in between.

In this spirit, the invitation of midsummer is not just to work hard, but to work wisely. To remember that balance isn’t something we arrive at once—it’s something we keep recalibrating. It lives in our willingness to pause, to notice, and to make choices that reflect not only what we want to give to the world, but what we need in order to give it sustainably.

Choose one or more of the following to integrate into your weekly rhythm. These practices are designed to bring presence, regulation, and reflection to your summer experience without requiring more than you have to give.

• Energetic Inventory and Recalibration:
  • Take quiet time to assess where your energy is currently being spent versus where you’re being refueled. Make a simple two-column list: one for what is requiring your attention, and one for what is giving you nourishment. Be honest. You may find that some things you've labeled as “self-care” are actually draining because they’ve become obligations. This is your opportunity to shift, release, or adapt—so your efforts reflect your current needs, not outdated expectations.
    
• Simple Ritual for Tending with Presence:
  • Visit a single plant or patch of land. Water it, weed it, or simply sit with it without trying to change or fix anything. As you tend, ask: What in my life is growing and needs this same kind of quiet care? Let the slowness of the act guide you into presence. Tend your thoughts the way you’d tend this patch of land—patiently, attentively, without force.
    
• Anchor a Repeatable Rest Practice:
  • Choose a single small ritual to repeat each day that connects you back to your body or spirit in a grounding way. This could be lighting a candle at sundown, breathing deeply for three minutes between tasks, stepping outside to watch the sky, or placing your hands on the earth each morning. The purpose isn’t novelty—it’s rhythm. When the world is loud, repetition becomes sanctuary.
    
• Reflection Questions to Check In Weekly:
  • Instead of waiting until burnout or spiritual detachment forces you to reset, check in intentionally each week with questions like:
    •  What feels balanced in my life right now, and what doesn’t?
    •  Where am I pouring energy that no longer yields meaning or connection?
    •  What can I prune, pause, or pass on so that I can continue to show up with care?
      

You don’t need to have all the answers. Simply asking these questions helps you stay aligned with your actual energy, not just your intentions.

Let this season be a reminder that maintenance is not mundane. It is sacred. That rest is not retreat—it is recalibration. And that balance is not something we perfect, but something we practice, again and again, in every breath, every choice, every step we take in relationship with the land and with ourselves. May you find rhythm in the tending, and strength in the pause.

Note: The resources around the spiritual and scientific aspects of paganism are vast, numerous, and various beyond what I have included throughout my blog posts. Science is still advancing, and there are many different "flavors" of paganism. The beliefs shared in this blog are mine and being shared as one perspective, and I do not expect it to resonate with everyone or believe that this is the "only correct way" to be a pagan.