Each Season Echoes
the places we’ve been and the goodness still to come
When March rolls around, I stroll sidewalks admiring the buds and blooms on every bush and tree. The words of Ada Limon’s “Instructions on Not Giving Up” become a reality for anyone who looks upon an oak in April.
“... it’s the greening of the trees that really gets to me… Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us.”
But then the springtime green deepens to a tangled foliage paired with thick, hot air that drives most people indoors. And you forget to admire the green you had once missed so dearly.
On my run the other day, the forest caught me. Every branch brimmed with leaves. Each spilling over to the next tree and then the next. The whole forest seemed to be one big canopy boasting a crown of deep green. One that took until now to grow.
It’s October and this is the last of the green.
It will soon catch fire, lighting every park and yard with yellows and oranges and reds.
There’s something wonderful about staying warm after a summer swollen by the sun. Sometimes it feels like it has always been this way. That the days have always been long and the heat always insufferable. That the cold of February was just a dream.
The turning of the trees is an invitation into the next. A time of rest from growing all these leaves.
I saw a girl in red rain boots as I ran down the path. She was wearing shorts that went past her knees. They were baggy and long and gray, the kind of shorts you only get away with wearing when you’re seven. Her hair was knotty and looked like she had stuck her head out a car window. She held the straps of her red backpack water bottle as she led the class on their nature walk.
Beside her was an old man jogging in business casual. His short-sleeve button-up was tucked into his slacks held up by a brown leather belt. The fringe on his loafers bounced as he took each step. Every few moments, he would lift a finger to keep his glasses from falling down his nose. It took him a while, but eventually, he got past the girl in red rain boots.
As the two crossed paths, I saw individuals who could not be more different from one another. One old, another young. One spry, another stiff. I doubt either noticed the other. But both had captivated me, maybe it was because I saw myself in each of them.
Deep down inside each of us is a child who wears what is easiest to play in and lives in tangled hair. And there is, too, a man who continues to move even when it’s hard and is okay with not being the best.
I can learn from every version of myself.
The one who played until dark and enjoyed being taken care of. The one who moved states away for college and forged a new path. The one who is quick to laugh and quicker to apologize.
I can also live with the hope of the versions of myself to come.
To believe that every skinned knee and heartbreak is creating the wise old woman I hope to be. The one with a halo of gray hair and a closet full of sweaters.
There is beauty to every season.
Old and young. Spring and fall. Winter and summer.
Each one echoes of the places we’ve been and the goodness still to come.
Without winter we would get tired of the green. Without the summer, we would forget the life that hides behind the bark of every birch.
We need the memory of yesterday and the promise of tomorrow to believe in the beauty of right now.
I need the girl with tangled hair when life becomes stiff. I need the old man in slacks to remember the value of putting one foot in front of the next. I need the memory of spring when the days are short and the nostalgia of fall when the days are long. I need to see the beauty that was and the beauty that will be again.
We need it all.