Life is characterized by seasons, and seasons don’t always arrive—or end—when we expect them to. Early thaws and late freezes are increasingly common planetary realities, but they have always been social, emotional, spiritual, and bodily realities. Here in Kentucky, we had no winter to speak of, apart from a brief stretch of subzero temperatures around Christmas. Since then, we’ve been setting records for warmth and wind. On Friday, wind gusts hit 80 mph, but the day following was balmy and bright. Buttercups and spring beauties already carpet the forest floor, along with freshly fallen trees—cedar, ash, and oak giants felled by wind. Yesterday, I spent time in my local arboretum, smelling flowers, touching blossoms, and peering at dainty shoots. It felt urgent—the need to welcome all the tiny, tender things before they are gone. In a couple days’ time, it will freeze. The magnolia blossoms will dry and drop to the ground, their season abruptly ended. “Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?” as Mary Oliver asks.
Sometimes, we use this as an excuse not to feel joy. Not to risk happiness. We know the season will shift again, and we imagine that our refusal to experience spring will somehow make the next winter more bearable. But closing off from beauty and love and warmth is closing off from nourishment. It’s closing off from meaning. It’s closing off from life itself. And life is characterized by this absurdity: a daffodil, peering cheerily from the debris of felled giants. Spring will come again. So will winter and summer and fall, not always in the order that we expect them.
In this season of my life, I am writing and parenting and taking walks in the woods with my dog. I am clipping coupons, tweaking my medications, planning my garden, and waiting on biopsy results. It is a season of everything: of laughter and fear and hope and joy and fatigue. A season of flowers and frost.
I have friends who are in darker seasons than mine. They sit in Siberian winters that they didn’t see coming. Maybe that’s how this moment feels for you. I’d love to say something rosy about how the cold won’t last forever; almost certainly, that would be true. But I won’t say it. Instead, I’ll wish you this: tiny, tender things to keep you company in the cold and dark. I wish you ephemeral beauty, flickers of light, and a momentary parting of the clouds. We are ephemeral, after all. A momentary flicker. What need could such impermanent creatures possibly have for permanence?
P.S. Maybe you noticed that I didn’t send out an email last week. I’m trying to be mindful of my rhythms, my desires, and my energy output. My soul told me to take a week off—so I did. Odds are, it will happen again! Thank you for understanding.
"closing off from beauty and love and warmth is closing off from nourishment." swirly hearts! also love the wish for flickers of beauty in the darkness! they do sometimes arrive so brightly, because of that darkness. big value there, too.
Truth 🤩