Seasons of the year are practice. That’s what I think. We practice death and resurrection over and over again.
The natural world changes to show us that time is in motion. Summer will come. You can’t stop it. And winter will follow. But spring follows, too.
None of the seasons are permanent. The motion never ceases, and motion is one of the signs of life.
Somewhere in all of the weather and decay and germination and harvesting there is at least one fragment of every facet of our spiritual journey. The inside and outside of things are woven together, I think. Whatever’s happening on the outside reflects something happening on the inside.
A withered flower, frozen on the vine, reminds us we will die. The sound of melting, trickling, singing water reminds us we will live again.