My obsession with seasons

I am always searching for the moment when summer becomes fall

There was this whole period in my thirties when I was sort of obsessed with seeing the seasons change. It was very important to me that I notice the way the tree branches turned reddish in the spring before the first buds appeared. I would point out to anyone who was interested (or not) the long, pale green buds on the willow trees, some of the first ones to show up around here. I watched the hills on the Kentucky side when I walked along the river for the first hint of yellow or brown in the fall.

There was something very determined about this obsession, like I was trying to catch Mother Nature in the act, slipping out of her summer wardrobe of cut-off and tank tops into the fuzzy sweaters of fall. Maybe I believed there was a discrete moment when winter became spring and I wanted to be sure to see it. Maybe I was trying to pay more attention to nature. I don’t really remember the origins of that particular obsession.

As I’m writing now, I notice that it was only the transition from certain seasons I was interested in. When winter becomes spring. When summer becomes fall. Spring slides into summer and who really ever knows the difference? Same with fall into winter. Winter and summer aren’t objectively longer seasons, they just always feel that way. I’m always a little impatient for them to go.

Maybe the obsession came from the fact that I really like seasons. I like the idea of seasons. I like the restart they imply. I get very bored of my summer clothes and then I get very bored of my winter clothes, so I’m glad I get to switch. I like the fact that seasons are not linear. It’s not like calendar time. Winter ends, yes, but it’ll be back, unlike 2024, which will be gone forever.

Photo by Barth Bailey on Unsplash

I live a deeply seasonal life, both because I’m in a temperate climate that still has four seasons (fingers crossed) and because I’m a college professor. Fall is the beginning of the school year. Winter is Christmas break. Spring is the end of another school year. Summer is freedom. Repeat, repeat, repeat. When I get tired of one class or one set of students, a new class and a new set of students appears. I don’t know how time works in a job that’s all-year long. I don’t really ever want to find out.

This is all to say, for the past week or so, I’ve noticed birds in the backyard gathering in larger numbers. A whole charm of finches gathered across the power line where before there were only one or two (yes, charm is the collective noun for finches—isn’t it perfect?). I can only assume that this is a sign that they’re getting ready to leave us and head south.

Driving home from Kentucky, we saw a murmuration of starlings. Since then I’ve seen several other small flocks of other species. Last night I was at a concert in Indianapolis (Melissa Etheridge and Indigo Girls, and, yes, it was awesome). I turned around as the sun was setting to take in the huge crowd of people and saw four Canadian geese, their silhouettes reflected in the glass of the hotel building behind us. On the drive home today, I saw more groups of geese. Small for now, but a sign.

As I’m sitting here writing now, I can see the first beginnings of yellow on the trees on the hill behind town. Still green, but a different sort of green now than it was in spring or the deepest part of summer.

The seasons are a comfort because they keep turning. At least so far. It’s proof that there’s a wisdom beyond me. I know a botanist or a ornithologist could probably describe to me how the leaves know when it’s time to change or the geese know to begin to gather. That would be a kind of explanation, but there’s also a mystery there. How do they know, the trees and the geese and the starlings? Because they know. They just do.

Maybe that’s what I wanted to capture back when I was obsessed with the seasons. Maybe I wanted a little glimpse of that deep knowledge. Maybe I wanted to feel that I, too, was a part of this small turning from one season to the other. That like the geese, I had the wisdom to feel fall stirring in the wind.