Seasons of Yearning

This is the season of yearning. Here in the north, the bitter chill has settled upon the land. It creeps in through chimneys and through the cracks in the windows. Frigid drafts discourage us from getting out of bed in the morning and drive us beneath the covers early in the evening. It is a season of whiteness, when the world becomes and indistinguishable pallet of bleak tundra. The novelty of winter has long ago worn off and there is yet no promise of spring. It is the netherworld known as March.

“March sucks,” was the oft-repeated refrain of my father who used such expletives to decry the lack of outdoor activities available. In March it is too warm for ice fishing and yet too early for fly-fishing. Turkey season has not yet come and deer season is a distant memory persevering only in bitter refrains or in the bottom of freezers.

Even I, who share few of my father’s predatory tendencies, find myself aligned against the moth. Hiking is difficult amid the ankle-scraping drifts. Pants always return home with their cuffs soaked. Few animals brave the winter woods and the chance of an encounter is rare. A lack of flora yields unimpressive views. On top of all this, the blustery winds make it far more attractive to lament the season on the dry side of a pane of glass.

Yet there is value in longing. Our daily lives are an exercise in instant gratification. We expect (and sometimes get) things to come to us immediately. Technology is largely to blame but we must accept responsibility for our attributes. We have lost, it would seem, the satisfaction that comes from patient expectation. We might instruct our children in the virtue of patience but we buck against it when it rears its head in our own lives. There are some pleasures that only come by trial; some flavors only come through the ripening. When we rush through the process or (as is more often the case) bitterly complain our way through the waiting, we spoil the victory that we have gained.

The seasons are the perfect remedy for our demands for instantaneous action; the perfect teacher for our impatience. Regardless of our wishes, we are bound to the rhythm of the earth. Autumn paints the leaves at a constant rate every year. Summer remains a tantalizing prize in the heart of winter. The seasons--- their opportunities and their complications ebb and flow as the tides and if we are to not waste away our days on this earth, we must learn to find the beauty in the hours before the dawn, the joy in the pain. We must train our eyes to see the crocus emerging from the snow drifts, to find solace in the shade of a tree in the heat of the day, and to find beauty even on the greyest of days. We must slow and discern if we to find value in all things.