As I sit in this first cold snap and see hanging baskets with darkened, withered leaves and tiny pellets of brittle snow skittering across the balcony, I feel change coming. The geraniums are still blooming pink and unfazed. The grass is still green. Some of the trees are yellow and red. Some are bare from the wind. There is no synchrony, but rather singularity in the parts of nature as the season begins to change. Why is this one staunchly blooming while another has faded away? Like middle school kids, awkwardly entering the next phase at various rates and in unlovely ways.
It strikes me that life is a solitary path, a series of changes that may or may not coincide with anyone else’s readiness to change. I have often spoken of seasons in my life, years in which my creativity took wing through music, through art, and through writing. And within those seasons there were seasons, times of growth, times of drought, times of dormancy and rejuvenation.
Sometimes my husband claims he wants to go live where it’s always summer. I can think of many such lovely places, but then there’s a day like today when I feel the unease of change coming. When I know they’re calling for snow Saturday, and at first I think I need to cancel the mountain hike we planned for my birthday, then imagine hiking it in the snow instead. Excitement springs up. Change.
Without change, I’d grow dull. I need the dissonance that resolves. I think that’s at my core as a writer. Strife, strife, more strife, then resolution. And with that dissonant resolution comes wonder, comes beauty. I rejoice that God in his great wisdom didn’t give us a static world.