I watch the seasons as they dance onto centre-stage like clockwork, when their names are called. As each hears its melody, it performs with its own light and shadows and palette of colours to embolden, bringing to life its charge.
Sometimes a season may linger like a lover’s scent, other time it wipes the slate clean for the next: it is the hand that turns the crisp white page.
And sometimes in the handshake of two seasons that both welcomes and bids farewell there is pain. There are words and hours and wounds that dampen the warmth of summer or the comfort of winter. Just as one cannot have all of the seasons at once, these must be released. The release may at first feel like a pulsing leaf ripped from a branch, but the space it creates will bring healing and room for something new.
In order for what is to be (to be), something must give way: but there is no fear in Autumn, or despair in Winter. Spring will come and with it, the new thing. It cannot, however, without allowing Autumn and Winter to unfold and be truly themselves. Thus the end isn’t the end, only the beginning.
Autumn and Winter must be given permission to bloom in their own way. So be it if that is to choke and discard last Summer’s pretty flowers borne from Spring’s best intentions.
What each season leaves behind is precious and lives forever, in memory if not present presence. Second-hand offerings become part of soil for new things – all is not lost. Nothing is lost. Fertile soil for the new chapter, a stepping stone towards new planes.
Even the darkest Winter will soon make room for Spring. But may we take care not to miss the song of each season in the seeding and sowing and coming and going. In them lie lessons and treasures of their own.