Here we come to a turning of the season.
Here we come to a turning of the season, witness to the arc towards the sun…
So begins The Decemberists’ Don’t Carry It All, providing, along with the rolling rhythm of the song, one of my all-time favourite openings to an album.
As the leaves turn and fall from the trees, and the temperature drops, I think of those words.
As the snow falls, and the temperature drops further, I think of those words.
As the first shoots of spring appear, and the birdsong changes, I think of those words.
As the temperature rises, and dawn comes earlier, I think of those words.
As the endings come in my life, or my work, I think of those words.
As I reap the harvest of seeds planted long ago, I think of those words.
As new growth appears, I think of those words.
As the darkness closes in on me, I try to think of those words.
As births come, I think of those words.
As deaths come, I think of those words.
As something begins to wither, I think of those words, remembering that in the spring it may grow back, even stronger.
In the dark of the night, I think of those words.
In the flash of the first light of dawn, I think of those words.
When the world is closing in on me, I try to think of those words.
We live in a series of cycles.
Witness to the arc towards the sun.
Witness to a planet turning a touch on its axis.
Witness to a Hero’s Journey, and another, and another.
Witness to birth, growth, decay and death.
In everything.
And, sometimes, to rebirth.
Much as we might wish it, we can’t skip these cycles.
As I reflect on the seasons, often, I reflect: autumn is my favourite. The crisp sunlight on the golden leaves. The air clearer than in the summer, but not so cold as the winter.
But then, when it is winter, sitting in front of a fire with a blanket around me whilst rain rattles against the windows, or with the smell of mulled spices drifting past, or with our midwinter celebrations. Well, maybe winter is my favourite.
Until the spring. The first flush of warmth in the air. The feeling – as much as the sight – of new life, of rebirth, of growth. The possibility of the spring. Maybe spring is my favourite.
Until the summer. The glorious life of the summer, the warmth of the sun, the aliveness it gives to a nation starved of sunlight or a city starved of life. Summer is a thing to behold. Maybe summer is my favourite.
Until the autumn, when the leaves turn, the sky changes, the light changes and… maybe autumn is my favourite.
We used to know the seasons. They used to dictate our lives.
And then we outgrew them, creating technology – from fire and clothing onwards – that allowed us to rebel against them, to live with them in different ways, to create more for ourselves, our families, our societies.
And, sometimes, we find that the old things are what bring us back to life.
Approached anew, with all we know now.
You should always come back to what you used to know, but you can’t come back all the way.
Those little sprinklings of oldness, those little moves towards aliveness, those little memories of the cycles.
Here we come to a turning of the season, witness to the arc towards the sun.
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This is the latest in a series of articles written using the 12-Minute Method: write for twelve minutes, proof read once with tiny edits and then post online.
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