A Walk
At first glance early January seems to be the dead time of the year. The trees are bare, their branches gaunt and dark. The fields are resting too, wet and soft, reprieved from their work of rearing sheep and barley (and sometimes blushing with poppies and camomile too). Forests and meadows deserve respite, after the lingering sadness of autumn, and before the mayhem of spring.
But sloshing through the Country Park, I am neither struck by the woods’ deadness, nor its dormancy. I notice autumn, rich and golden, still parading its crown of gold amid the sallow bleakness. Oak trees – a few, at least – are still clothed in amber leaf. Yet I find newness gathering itself, ready for its sprint towards rampant growth. Wild garlic shoots are already pushing through under a cloak of autumn leaves. The three-cornered garlic is verdant – the alexanders have been for weeks – and catkins bounce on hazel twigs, alive with anticipation.
Autumn stretches its gentle, benign arm onwards towards spring. And spring nestles its hand in autumn’s, bright-eyed and playful in a safe embrace. Together they wear winter as a coverlet: a restful blessing, a trinity of renewal.
Our Lives
Our lives bear the imprint of the seasons too. Old joys are born forward, still golden in the memory. New enterprise is kindled with excitement in hearts both old and young. And safe between these bounties, there is the soft promise of rest – and we are sore in need of rest.
Bare the gifts of the seasons well: age and youth live fine together. May their joint blessing be the release which is our life’s reward.
The seasons of our life keep our soul safe.
