But the seasons of the soul are not as enjoyable. Here is pain, uncertainty, and confusion. Nothing is simple or straight forward. When life disintegrates and you're left staring at an empty horizon, the questions come much faster than you can process. Time slows to an agonizing crawl and every moment becomes a struggle. Futility. Anger. Everything swirls around and through you like fog. You become lost. The distinction between seasons are blurred. Are things still dying or is everything dead? Are the days gradually warming towards a new spring? Is this new growth or simply a patch of grass that survives the cold and refuses to lose its color? The process of emptying becomes endless. Every emotion becomes a journey of identifying, naming, processing, personifying, and in the end, welcoming. Hello loneliness. Come on in. Throw your bags of pain, sadness, and betrayal in the corner by all the winter boots. Come settle at the table, and let me make you a cup of tea. It's a miserable day outside, and we've got days of bleak weather ahead of us. But we're warm, the fire is crackling, and the kettle whistling. We're safe here, and we'll be OK. Eventually, the days will lengthen, the eaves will begin to drip with the afternoon thaw, the sun being a little brighter and a little warmer. Trust the process of season. Spring will come, with new birth, new life, and new hope.
Friday, July 5, 2019
The Process of Season
I love the idea of seasons. A continual cycle of spring with all of its promises, summer with its easy, relaxing days, fall with the glorious joy of harvest, and the snowy winter covered in quiet, secluded contemplations. Years cycle past and every one becomes another notch on our calendar. Endless. Continuous. Lately running the long stretch of highway between Canada and California the effect of season has become even more pronounced. The California landscape never really suffers the indignity of winter - unless you venture into the Sierra Nevadas that reach over 7000 feet and experience the exuberance of an overzealous snowfall. But eventually even at those altitudes the green slowly starts to creep in, the flowers bringing color to the edges of the highway, and the sounds of summer echoing through the forest. It's beautiful, encouraging, and heartwarming. I love it.
But the seasons of the soul are not as enjoyable. Here is pain, uncertainty, and confusion. Nothing is simple or straight forward. When life disintegrates and you're left staring at an empty horizon, the questions come much faster than you can process. Time slows to an agonizing crawl and every moment becomes a struggle. Futility. Anger. Everything swirls around and through you like fog. You become lost. The distinction between seasons are blurred. Are things still dying or is everything dead? Are the days gradually warming towards a new spring? Is this new growth or simply a patch of grass that survives the cold and refuses to lose its color? The process of emptying becomes endless. Every emotion becomes a journey of identifying, naming, processing, personifying, and in the end, welcoming. Hello loneliness. Come on in. Throw your bags of pain, sadness, and betrayal in the corner by all the winter boots. Come settle at the table, and let me make you a cup of tea. It's a miserable day outside, and we've got days of bleak weather ahead of us. But we're warm, the fire is crackling, and the kettle whistling. We're safe here, and we'll be OK. Eventually, the days will lengthen, the eaves will begin to drip with the afternoon thaw, the sun being a little brighter and a little warmer. Trust the process of season. Spring will come, with new birth, new life, and new hope.
But the seasons of the soul are not as enjoyable. Here is pain, uncertainty, and confusion. Nothing is simple or straight forward. When life disintegrates and you're left staring at an empty horizon, the questions come much faster than you can process. Time slows to an agonizing crawl and every moment becomes a struggle. Futility. Anger. Everything swirls around and through you like fog. You become lost. The distinction between seasons are blurred. Are things still dying or is everything dead? Are the days gradually warming towards a new spring? Is this new growth or simply a patch of grass that survives the cold and refuses to lose its color? The process of emptying becomes endless. Every emotion becomes a journey of identifying, naming, processing, personifying, and in the end, welcoming. Hello loneliness. Come on in. Throw your bags of pain, sadness, and betrayal in the corner by all the winter boots. Come settle at the table, and let me make you a cup of tea. It's a miserable day outside, and we've got days of bleak weather ahead of us. But we're warm, the fire is crackling, and the kettle whistling. We're safe here, and we'll be OK. Eventually, the days will lengthen, the eaves will begin to drip with the afternoon thaw, the sun being a little brighter and a little warmer. Trust the process of season. Spring will come, with new birth, new life, and new hope.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment