Everything eventually renews
There's this term, "seasonal affective disorder," that's always seemed a bit off to me (even as it definitely afflicts me). It's the disorder jammed on the end there, as if being affected - even in significant ways - by seasonal changes isn't perfectly human.
Who isn't affected by dramatically shortened days and barren, cold nights as winter approaches? And who isn't equally but oppositely affected when the world suddenly comes alive again in spring? And what is life without the exuberant joy of a forever-long peak July day and the sweet wistfulness of that subtle but unmistakeable moment when summer tips into autumn? The rhythms of the year - the changing light, temperatures, plant life, foods, and moods - give context to lovely and difficult moments across the landscape of my memory.
Lake, river, ocean, stream: I’ve always lived by the water, and it’s always had a special draw for me. I grew up by the steep and wooded banks of the upper Mississippi River in Minnesota, a place defined by two colors: the blue of its thousands of lakes and the green lushness of its brief and precious summer. The winters of my childhood were bitterly cold, endlessly snowy, and seemingly interminable. But then the world would thaw, all that snow would melt, and for a few heady weeks the damp ground would seem actually to sigh exhalations of deep relief. Steam would rise from the river and low wetlands and the air was redolent of soil, wet leaves, fish, and new life. We welcomed these sweet odors, so long absent that we forgot this fertile land smelled like anything at all. Those aromas were, and forever are, a reminder of the profound and elegant simplicity of life on this planet, where everything eventually renews. There is no energy quite like the energy of a spring day.
The waters still draw me no matter where I find myself. They move, they sparkle, they promises health and life. The waters are irresistibly basic and universal, containing some timeless secret wisdom and gentle power.
Spring is still the loveliest time to be by the water. I'm a long way from Minnesota, but I can always wander down to the Hudson and imagine that it's the Mississippi of my youth and the ice jams are clearing and the world is becoming unstuck again. After a long winter I'm becoming unstuck again. The soft, bright light rising from the river embraces me like an old fully-known friend does after a season apart. It's the delight in knowing that every season ends; it's the relief of letting our darker moments wash away. It's the promise, without words but with absolute certainty, that we're gonna make it through.
