the seasons inside

Joy, my love, joy in all things,
in what falls and what flourishes.

Joy in today and yesterday,
the day before and tomorrow.

Joy in bread and stone,
joy in fire and rain.

In what changes, is born, grows,
consumes itself, and becomes a kiss again.

. . .

Joy in the night and the day,
and the four stations of the soul.

—from “How much happens in a day” by Pablo Neruda


Calendar years are arbitrary; they’re not like schools years, which measure personal progress; they’re not like seasons, which change the weather and redecorate our surroundings in ways that impact how we go about our daily lives. But there is something very human about counting time as it passes—about pausing as it passes and reflecting backward or looking forward.

I used to count the time by the seasons; growing up in Atlanta, the seasons worked methodically, changing every three months and each differing dramatically from the next. As they morphed, so did my outlook; different facets of my psyche thrived in different weather. The four seasons shaped four stations of my soul, and I came to rely on their multiplicitous existence.

But in Boston, those stations were thrown into mayhem. I had to adjust to the imbalance brought on by six months of winter and a quite variable summer. At some point in my decade there, I began, emotionally, to hibernate during the winter. It just went on too long; I couldn’t cope with being cooped up for so many months. But I realized I could work it to my advantage; I could use the wintertime for my internal indulgences. I treated myself to whole days of reading novels. I wrote fiction. I wrote poetry. I wrote whatever came to me because I had the time to sit quietly nestled indoors for hours on end. I came to love the new cycle, in which winter could be a time of creation just as spring would be.

Living in California, I think the stations of my soul have merged; most of the time, I live with a spring spirit in my heart. In the winter months, I find I actually yearn for some reason to feel depressed, to stay inside by myself, for I am very extroverted but still an introvert; I need quiet time to myself for revitalization. The first winter here, I hibernated a bit once again; I spent entire Saturdays sitting cross-legged on the sofa, typing away at new scenes for one of my old works of fiction. It wasn’t cold outside, but I stayed in anyway, not wanting to let my winter soul go entirely. By the second winter, I needed that season even more. I had just had a rough few months on the dating front; I was worn down emotionally for the first time since moving here. In some respects I took a much longer winter than even in Boston. At the start of the year, I declared myself to be on dating sabbatical, and I focused my attention in all kinds of other directions. I was as actively involved in things as a person can be; so much so that I wore myself down a bit physically. I was busy running work things and volunteer things and taking vacations and thinking up new goals for my future, and that would not seem like hibernation to anyone who witnessed it, but inside me, in the quiet part that feels the most deeply, while the external part was running itself (enjoyably) toward empty, the internal part was fueling up. A full year passed while I was on dating sabbatical, and during that long, singular season, the external me explored all kinds of new territory while the internal me quietly built up its fire and came back to life. I was spring and winter at one time.

Living in this climate of more unified seasons, I feel a need to take more note of the yearly sign-posts so I don’t risk losing track of time entirely. But perhaps I should let go of the counting. Perhaps it doesn’t matter how many times the spirit flares and fades, changes and comes into new being. Perhaps all that matters is that it does.