I was young in that place where we are all young, when the world seems larger, the fires seem to warm you better, and the fallen leaves and frozen world of snow just create new landscapes of adventure. I remember perfect, clear ocean water and the smell of salt in the air as spring finally gave way to summer.
And there are other kinds of seasons. There are the seasons of childhood and paper-glue constructions and grade-school innocence. There are the seasons of awkward glances and school dances. There are the seasons of the first warm blush of love, where the world will always be the clearest and the sunlight reveals only new endless moments, which you can time-travel within - because in that season we can all stop time.
There are the seasons of friendship and those of first duty and dedication where there’s less time for memories and where people rely upon us for their living and their life. There are the seasons of loss when we find that it is possible for endings to come abruptly and hit us with the power and weight of the whole world – maybe the universe. There’s the season of beauty, when we discover we can see the world through the eyes of our children, if we’re willing to try. There’s the season of strength and will, when we discover we can, indeed, overcome.
There’s a season for all of it.
Let the slideshow of your life spool through you. See the images of all those yesterdays, once so overwhelming – now so light and delicate, like pale tracings on fine tissue. Does any of it have enough texture to wash you back – even for a moment – so you can know, even in the Autumn of your life, what it felt like in that first summer kiss?
How many years – how many seasons before the boatman comes for us all? Or will we warriors be fortunate and be carried aloft by valkaries, flashing silver and gold in their ivory chariots, stiff battle harness, heavy horses clad in polished iron, unearthly breath clouding in the crisp air of our endings?
Give me the tall drinking mug and I will toast heartily your exploits and beauty – I’ll toast your future and exclaim in lofty words, your unending power and eternal, untouchable grace. We will wake the sleeping countryside with the great call of the living and certain immortals.
I know the way to the future. See it – it is just there beyond the next stand of trees, waiting for us, promising a new season and a new beginning. The promise is always new and always seems to shine with its’ own light and soul. Whether we choose to grasp it and breathe into it and make it real and whole – it is all there. See the birds, tilting amongst the heights and haze of our horizon. But are they birds or angels? Do they call for our action, or come for our release?
Compassion and forgiveness are the gifts of angels, should we choose to accept them. In our new seasons we can do that, and open our hearts, feel the smile warm us, and go to our sleep knowing that the day we have just been given has been truly lived as if it were our last.
And if given the chance, we will live it again tomorrow.
We can have forever.