There is a time for everything, Solomon says, and a season for every activity under the sun. Who is it, exactly, calling the shots with these seasons? Here we are minding our manners as we walk the path we always have, when all of a sudden we stumble into a new place, or a same place with cold air blown in from some place else. Our arms, which a moment ago were cast wide open, that we might feel the warmth of the sun on every inch of our skin, our arms withdraw, we clench our fists and hold our arms close to our chest, bracing against the wind.
Autumn is fickle and inconstant. She arrives whenever she pleases, and who knows how long she’ll stay and what mood she’ll be in. Will she bring unexpectedly blue skies or wet the whole world with her grief?
This is a wandering season, but maybe there is a time to be lost as well. Perhaps the moment you succumb to fear and turn back, struggling to retrace your steps, is the moment just before you were about to find your way.
Regrettably, autumn hands us over to winter, dark, cold and unforgiving. But maybe winter brings us a gift by driving us towards shelter, and maybe she brings cozy days and nights huddled inside as we weather storms together. Maybe her cold front is a disguise, and winter brings us love. Baked-love, hug-love, talking-by-the-fire-love. And perhaps this is when we heal.