Seasons

Spring is coming, and the first naive crocuses have emerged. You’d think they’d have learned that in late February or early March winter more often than not returns to smack them upside their little white heads and say, “hey, not so fast!” But spring will come, the Alders will turn pink with new growth, the rivers will flood with snow melt from the mountains, everything will become verdant and grow as if this was the only moment in time to do so.
But at this moment, I’m not feeling as inspired by the constancy of the seasons. Last year was a rather barren one from a fruit bearing perspective. The orchard trees which normally produce more apples, pears, plums and cherries than we could ever consume, bore no fruit to speak of, the garden struggled, and it’s indestructible forest of kale was decimated.
Time passes and we hope for the best, but the unknowable origin of these forces of nature acts as a calling card to reflect on our significance, or lack thereof as some believe. The slow transformation of mountain and tree to particles of soil offers a contrast to our hasty routines of work and play, and the consuming thoughts of how we relate to the foibles of human existence, which by comparison is very, very… short.
As I hope for more bounty this year, if it comes there will be much to do. Most of it is physical and hard work, but on a visceral level it has opened me to the rhythm and pace, the interdependancies of the forces of nature.
We all draw our own conclusions as to the how’s and why’s of our existance.