Here in New England, the trees know more about the seasons than we do, and delight in documenting our trip around the Sun. Summer’s green canopy sets its palette aflame in brilliant reds and golds, like a final celebration. As autumn progresses, tired branches drop their leaves and sleep until the delicate budding of spring.
Seasons sing their notes proudly, then yield the stage to the next season’s song. We can believe in the balance of the cycle. Winter is necessary for us to circle around to a spring’s renewal.
As a part of nature, I know these cycles run through my life too. My seasons change in succession. A peaceful emptiness sets the stage for rebirth, and growth leads to a bounteous harvest within. I don’t need to control the seasons to make them change. Like a tree, sometimes I can accomplish a great deal by doing nothing at all. I shift my weight toward a new place and know it will swing around. In time.