“Season’s Greetings” is typically an end-of-year holiday message, as commonplace as mistletoe, Santa, and carols. But we pass through seasons all year long, and throughout our lives. I write this particular greeting during the post-Labor Day period as well as in the latter years of my life.
At this time of year, we talk about cool, dry air as a harbinger of fall, even though scorching days still compete for our attention. We intensify our search for garden tomatoes and sweet corn. While driving, we again give way to “Reduce Speed School Zone” warnings.
Golden Treetops
As the cold snap approaches, a voice reminds me, “Hey! You’d better appreciate those tomatoes. Welcome the golden treetops in the Catskills. Notice the gourds, apples, garlic, and the rest of the cornucopia making their farmers market debuts!”
I couldn’t always hear this voice. For much of my life it was drowned by others reciting lists of errands or berating me for leaving my desk. Seasons were something unimportant happening on the other side of the window.
Now in my 80s, there is no time for a ho-hum attitude toward the shift from summer to fall. I see the wins, joys, sorrows, slip-ups, and failed steps arc through the years. These dramas seized my attention, blurring the seasons of nature that framed or receded beyond them. At best I paid it all passing notice, giving an occasional glance to the fruits, vegetables, trees, meadows—the waxing and denouement of nature’s chromatic displays as solstices and equinoxes paraded through the year.
Night and Day in Balance
Daily obituaries of the famous members of my cohort remind me that I may or may not be around for the next transition. This year’s summer-kissed heirloom tomatoes, sweet corn and jack-o’-lanterns could be my last.
That voice has gotten louder lately. “How dare you take nature and its seasons for granted? Breathe it in. Etch the wonder in your mind’s eye. Let this splendor focus your days.”
So I look out the window. In the garden, Alexandra, having culled the early annuals, picks the latest pre-frost bounty. Bentley, our Golden Retriever, leaps the fence to fetch an errant tennis ball then tramples the zinnias that guard the potatoes and chives. A Victory Garden, this? Pumpkins, garlic, Northern Spies arriving. It is time, I’m coming to see, to listen, breathe, etch, focus. Let the season rather than events take the center stage.
“Time to pick the last raspberries, eggplants and green beans. The equinox is coming.” I finally know which voice to heed. “Send those formless human dramas to the periphery. Bask in the glow.” Not Victory—ours is a Peace Garden.
Well, then. Season’s greetings from the garden of life.
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