Recognizing the Seasons of Life
By
Ruth Ann Angus
It doesn’t usually rain in September here on the coastal edge of California, so the weather man’s prediction was surprising. I checked the skies and saw clouds high up, small stringy puffs of white drifting along. They have a scientific name and are often seen just prior to a weather front coming in, but I am not sure what that name is. Whatever it is, they gave me pause to consider how some things come along in our lives as signs to signify the need for a new direction, a new season of life.
Signs – portents of doom – some signs come in a too rapid beating of the heart, shortness of breath, pain here and there. A look in the mirror shows a person we do not recognize. What happened to that person with the dark hair, the high cheeks, the light in the eyes?
Each season of life, just like the Earth’s seasons, has times of prosperity and times of decline. I find myself thinking about this as I spy a yellow watering can discarded by the side of the road in the neighbor’s scrap pile. This yellow watering can may be cast off but looks to be still useful. I can’t stop myself from throwing on a sweater, going out and crossing the street, picking up the can, examining it and although scratched and dingy, it appears to be intact. I’m sure it can still hold water. The can, which is thrown out from one house during my neighbor’s fall cleaning, finds new home in another, mine. I am glad to save it and give it a new life, a new purpose.
Sometimes, without us asking for it change is thrust upon us. It can mean having to leave behind a long life of activities and associations.
I am reminded of two folk songs that were popular during the folk music craze of the sixties. One authored by activist songwriter Phil Ochs says:
“Passions will part in a strange melody – As fires will sometimes burn cold – Like petals in the wind, we’re puppets to the silver strings of soul of changes.”
Another penned by Joni Mitchell has a chorus that goes like this:
“And the seasons they go round and round – And the painted ponies go up and down – we’re captive on a carousel of time – We can’t return, we can only look – Behind from where we came – And go round and round in the circle game.”
I drive down the old Turri road to the fields of marigolds, rows and rows of bright yellow and deep orange blooms that reflect the season upon this first day of autumn that we call Fall. I often wondered why we don’t use the word autumn more. To fall can mean to stumble and land upon the ground. We say we “fall” in love, or we “fall” out of love. Falling is often a negative thing. Leaves turn color and they fall off the tree, but even though the tree can appear to be dead, life still flows through its inner core.
Today the sun is out but always a bit chilly in the morning and then like summer in midday, it is again cool by four in the afternoon. Certainly, something is changing.
Rain is predicted for tomorrow. But it may not.
I take the old battered yellow watering can, fill it to the brim, and carry it to the potted plants thirsty for drink. I upend the can, and water flows out soaking the soil, nourishing the plant. Still useful this old can and so am I.
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