A season for everything

And for everything a season

As time has passed, I’ve gotten more comfortable living my life in cycles and seasons.

My life's seasons overlap and don't necessarily correspond to the annual changes in weather that come from the tilt of the planet and distance from the sun.

Let me explain.

Most parts of my life seem cyclical, tidal, recurring. Right now I'm reading a lot, finishing six books in as many weeks; a few months ago, I went 8 weeks without touching a book. 

On average, I love cooking but haven't wanted to with any regularity in more than a year (though I still have to eat so I do). I've lived off quick and dirty recipes made of pantry staples with only the occasional flash in the pan of culinary excursion—instead of regularly hosting friends to try something new.

Right now my garden is an unkempt riot of tomatoes, beans, collards, squash, and clover edged by California poppies and I couldn't care less about making sure it's well-tended. (For what it's worth, it seems to be doing fine without the helicopter parenting of the sort I last felt necessary when the beds were mostly brown and dormant in December). 

I rail against my waxing and waning interest in these things—reading, cooking, gardening; hiking, homemaking, camping; and yes, writing and playing music.

My “did I compose today?” tracker looking like a six-year old’s smile.

Pain accompanying a loss of interest often arises from having at one point or another (and maybe just a few days ago) felt these activities to be deeply sustaining, important parts of being alive, near-(but apparently not)essential. That pain is laced with guilt and some self-loathing: the conventional wisdom I've consumed holds that to do anything "right", you need to do it every day, or at least regularly, even when you don't want to be. 

I've lived long enough through enough boom-bust-boom cycles of passion and interest that I know there is a season for everything and, at least for me, everything comes back around. 

Just around the temporal corner I know I suddenly won't be able to stop churning out new pieces of music (and will stay up far past my bedtime doing so). That I'll be surrounded by stacks of books purchased or borrowed and insist I have nothing to read. That I'll be at a specialty grocery store looking for ingredients to dive headlong into a new-to-me culture's cuisine. 

My current to-read stack that, despite several boom-bust reading cycles, has only continued to grow.

Seeds planted in one season often don't start bearing fruit until a season much later. In writing music, I've sketched out multiple ideas that express a specific (actual) seasonal moment I was then in (spring, summer) yet I often didn't get around to expanding and completing them until another time (fall, winter). I buy books today knowing some future me will be glad past me did so.

(^A sketch for a new reed quintet written on this summer solstice that very much expresses the high energy of summer. At the earliest I won’t get around to developing it until the fall.)

Living with and within my life's seasons is learning to accept comings and goings, to receive (and give!) gifts when they come and not demand something not freely given. It is a practicing ground for the important moments and people in your life. They will inevitably come and go, grow closer and more distant. Trying hard to hold what can't or wont be held will not make it more likely to stay or stay longer; if anything, it probably makes a return less likely. People and feelings stick around (to the extent they do or can) when you welcome them, are present for and in them, let them know you are grateful for them, understand and care for them in the way they prefer to be, give them space and good tidings when they need them.

The north side of Mt Jefferson, a very delicate and seasonal landscape that is threatened with being loved to death by throngs of hikers and campers.

Accepting the ebb and flow has been the hard work of my life. This entry is evidence of that—an apologia for not being as regular a writer or composer as I want to be when I've just made the case there's nothing to be sorry about.

My advice for myself: as best you can manage, love your cycles and seasons. Learn to welcome them when they come and thank them as they go—a "see you soon!" not a "good bye". Trust that something that moved you to action so deeply will come back around, because it's seasonal. A part of your nature.