Seasons

It struck him that the seasons sometimes gain by being brought into the house, just as they gain by being brought into painting, and into poetry. The hand, fastidious and bold which selected and placed – it was that which made the difference. In Nature there is no selection.

Willa Cather

Tomorrow, I am looking forward to meeting my friend at the Botanic Gardens with crossed fingers that, this year, we’ll be there at the well timed moment to see the bulbs in bloom. It’s a balancing act at best and we’ve been too late the past few springs to see the flowers in their full glory.

Recently, my husband and I were sharing our favorite seasons. His is spring. He looks forward to longer days, warmer temperatures, green grass and buds appearing on the trees. A time of new beginnings.

Autumn has always been my preferred time of year. Growing up in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, the trees were adorned in a multitude of vibrant jewel tones. As the leaves dropped, they would be raked into enormous piles and made into pungent smelling bonfires. Sweaters would come out of cedar lined drawers, cider would be warmed and thoughts began of Halloween costumes.

I understand the attraction of spring, however as nature burns out in a glorious riot of color and turns to somber shades of brown, I believe there is promise of renewal. We hear the term,” Autumn of life”, representing the last portion of one’s life. I believe there is assurance in that time, when days become shorter, of infinite life.