Lemonal: Finding the Sacred in the Ordinary

How one autumn evening, a plate of lemon chicken revealed the magic of “thin times” and everyday holiness.

“Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world.”

Hamlet in William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Act III Scene2

The Witching Time of Night

Sometimes, as Shakespeare wrote, the world seems to tilt into strangeness—and sometimes, out of the blue, an ordinary thing (say, a lemon) becomes a doorway to the divine.

Though I love finding something to celebrate every day, the stretch from Halloween through Candlemas has always felt especially magical to me. Yes, the weather turns cold and the days grow dark, but this season carries its own quiet enchantment.

The Thin Time

What we call Halloween began as the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, marking the end of harvest and the dawn of winter. In Irish and Scottish Gaelic, Samhain is also the word for November—the beginning of the darker half of the year.

The Celts called this a “thin time.” For them, it was not, as Shakespeare wrote, when “hell itself breathes out contagion,” but rather a sacred threshold when the veil between earth and the Divine grew thin. Their day began and ended at sunset, so celebrations began on October 31—halfway between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice.

Spiritual writer Richard Rohr describes this space as liminal (from the Latin limen, meaning “threshold”):

“We are opened up to the sacred through special times, events, and places. It seems we need sacred days to remind us that all days are sacred.”

From Samhain to the Season of Light

As Christianity spread through Celtic lands, Samhain became All Saints’ Day (November 1), and its eve became All Hallows’ Eve—later, Halloween. The Church added All Souls’ Day on November 2, honoring the departed. Yet the ancient sense of “thinness” lingered: that feeling that the worlds of the living and the dead brush close enough to touch.

Between those early November days and Thanksgiving, I relish the waning honey-colored light, the draining of vivid greens, and the fiery transformation of leaves. Then comes Thanksgiving itself: a morning gathering with friends, a walk through crisp woods, and a family feast of turkey and ham.

The next day, we “opt outside” instead of shopping—hiking through Camp Winnataska—and Saturday brings the joyful tension of the Iron Bowl football game: and pulling for Alabama versus Auburn.

From Advent through the Twelve Days

Then comes Advent, those four weeks balancing quiet expectancy with bursts of festivity: decorating, gift-making, parties, concerts, and theatre. On December 23, we bake our nine-generation Pork Pie for Christmas breakfast.

From Christmas Day through Epiphany, we truly live the Twelve Days of Christmas: granddaughter Lucy’s birthday on Boxing Day, lunches with friends, pub visits, movies, music, and gallery wanderings. Stretching the celebration this way makes it the most joy-filled time of the year.

Toward Candlemas—and the Next Thin Time

By early February, the calendar turns again toward another Celtic threshold: Saint Brigid’s Day on February 1 and Candlemas on February 2, when candles are blessed and lit—a symbol of light returning to the world.

But let’s circle back to this essay’s title: Lemonal.

The Lemonal Moment

Richard Rohr also writes:

“We are in liminal space whenever past, present, and future time come together in a full moment of readiness—when the division between ‘right here’ and ‘over there’ is obliterated in our consciousness.”

That sacred crossing doesn’t have to happen only at Samhain or Candlemas. Sometimes, it happens right in your own kitchen.

One Friday evening—October 19, 2012—I experienced it while making dinner. I’d been feeling tired, a little under the weather, and life at church was complicated. Yet the week was full: theatre work, movies, babysitting our only grandchild, caring for my mother and stepfather, making candles for a bazaar.

That night, Roger and I decided to try Lemon Chicken. He cut and fried the chicken; I mixed the sauce — fresh lemon juice and zest, a touch of sweetness, soy sauce, chicken stock, and cornstarch to thicken. We added rice and vegetables and finally sat down to eat.

When I took the first bite, something extraordinary happened. The tangy, golden sauce sparked a moment of pure revelation — an instant when the universe seemed to open. I saw everything clearly: my life, my past, my purpose, all clicking into place. It was fleeting, but real. Roger can testify that I’ve never been quite the same since.

Tasting the Sacred

That experience was, quite literally, “lemonal.” The lemon’s sharp brightness, its balance of sweet and sour, cut through the ordinary and revealed something eternal. For a second, heaven and earth overlapped—and then the moment passed. Yet its sweetness lingers, like the echo of a cello suite after the final note.

And so each year, when autumn’s veil thins again, I remember that lemon-bright flash of clarity. It reminds me that the sacred isn’t confined to holy days or ancient rituals.

Sometimes, it arrives unexpectedly—over a simple dinner, in the company of someone you love, when you are most open to tasting it.

“Lemonal moments” can happen anywhere. All we have to do is stay awake enough to notice them.