I love the seasons. That’s probably why I have no urge to move to California. Sure, I have fleeting desires to be one of the bikini clad women all year round, especially when it’s freezing cold in the middle of January. But then I hear reality. Even if I did live out in California, where the sun shines all year round, I don’t have that waistline and I don’t wear bikinis. Oh, right. And once you start thinking more realistically, it’s hard to stop.
I love the seasons for many different reasons. I firmly believe that seasons are exactly as long as they should be. When summer comes, the heat feels glorious and sleeveless shirts are a sign of heaven. By September, all I want is a cool breeze and a pair of long jeans. When winter hits, I can’t wait for a winter wonderland to descend and by the time spring arrives I’m tired of my ski jacket. Somebody or something planned really well. At least by my standards.
A few days ago, fall finally hit. And wow, was it due. We had just survived a few weeks of massive stickiness and I was sick and tired of sweating. The first morning of heavenly fall, we were headed out for a playgroup outing but we couldn’t leave just yet without arriving really early. The kids didn’t quite understand that concept and were getting antsy, asking to go for a walk. They were already dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, looking totally adorable and so very like toddlers. Hmmmm… I loaded the car and let them play on the driveway until it was time to leave, hoping the compromise would settle their need to run.
I was invisible as they ran around giggling, heads turned into the cool breeze, smiles radiating. And with all that free time, I got to thinking about the last time they were dressed in jeans and sweatshirts. Last year. And how small they were back then. And how much more they know now than they knew then.
The other reason I love the seasons, beyond simply enjoying the change in temperature and overall environment, is that they mark time. You take out the shorts your kid wore last year and they don’t fit any more. The pants they wore last winter are now capris. That’s how you know how much they’ve grown. Otherwise, you simply lose track in the hectic nature of the day to day.
There have been periods of time in my life that felt stagnant. Where I found myself striving for a change that I simply could not force into reality. At those times, the seasons felt distressing. I would watch the snow melt or the leaves turn red and be forced to admit that another season was arriving without the desired life changes I so yearned for. I would recognize that my optimism for change might not bear fruit and feel crushed by the enormity of that realization.
During other times of my life, watching the seasons turn has been a thrill. The ending of an old job that led to a new and more fulfilling one. A new class. A resolution to change something that was in my control. The recognition that this season, my kids would be able to enjoy the world just that little bit more. Run in the leaves or play in the snow.
It’s amazing, the power of time. It has no concrete form and yet it yields enormous influence on our thoughts and behaviors.
I’m not going to blink, at least not too often. I don’t want to miss too much.
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