Four seasons makes nice comfortable sense. It’s a linear pathway down changes in temperature and up through warming days when clothes are shed and the light returns. Humble servants comply. With a mighty slash through ritual and ceremoniously awkward dinner table shenanigans, there is a processional march through the tides of change. Bump. It’s the bumps of the in-between times, the in-between seasons that rattle this linear complacency.
There are more than eight seasons here at Woodhaven. There’s a dip and push between deep winter and spring, a burst and a pull that follows spring into summer, an expansion of sorts that harkens in the the autumn winds and the brilliant blue of skies that offer up hope before the snow comes. I mark these in-between times on an internal calendar as subtle junctures that live inside my world. These are the true seasons and none are linear nor do they follow much of a predictable pattern. I notice the bumps, they direct me to hoops to jump through, where dislodging is required and where silence and focus are the food of regeneration. Bump, hoop, grow. Bump, hoop, grow.