"Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth." — Henry David Thoreau
Autumn is upon us. I pray for the death of the mosquitoes. I’m counting the days. When I was younger I loved summer and hated winter. Now I have lived many summers and many winters, so I’ve started to hate the summer and love the winter. Nietzsche said that autumn is more a season of the soul than of nature.
Life is seasons. Cold morning air. Family bike rides to the kindergarten and back. Playing at a playground until it gets dark. Crickets slowly chirping. The smell of tobacco. Great cheese neatly sliced on the table, cherry tomatoes plucked from the mother in law’s garden yesterday, some spilled on the floor, tiny pieces of bacon and home-made focaccia, the one that filled our home with warmth and the smell of familiarity and belonging as it baked.
Seasons. Constant change. Bloom and doom. Not knowing what tomorrow brings. Not giving up on hope anyway. Knowing I will have you by my side whatever happens, good or bad. All the fear and anxiety melting away. Knowing you’ll be there with our little one.
Who would’ve thought that a cigarette you asked me for would eventually make us husband and wife? You asked for a cigarette and your hair was wet. It was raining. I was alone at the club like I was waiting for you. Like I knew. And now here we are on the couch, our little one asleep, and me showing you my terrible incoherent drafts of an essay due tomorrow. I say I’ll give up and that I’ve had enough. It makes no sense to fret about the essay every month. You say that I should never give up since I’ve been so consistent. You say I love it and you are right. I am grateful.
The other day it was so hot I couldn’t breathe on the terrace. The other day it was still the best idea to spend the afternoon indoors. And now you open the terrace to have a smoke and there is a cold breeze and the sound of crickets and distant motorbikes. Ah, and the bark. There it is.
Constant change. No one knows about tomorrow. But maybe my problem is that I want too much control. Some things are just outside of it. Maybe my problem is too feeble a hope and too weak a faith. Too much emphasis on the practical and lack of trust in the spiritual. Matthew 6:34: “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” The day becomes heavy when it takes on the burden of worry for another day. It has enough trouble.
It’s hard not to worry, I say, while at the same time I do the bad habits. I follow the news. I doomscroll. I watch the short-form videos. And then I wonder why I worry. The kettlebells are collecting dust but it’s truly bewildering. Knowing but not really. In theory only. Lost momentum is hard to regain. Possible. But hard. I say to myself that I’ll start again tomorrow and tomorrow never comes. Perhaps I am attached to worrying, perhaps it’s my idea of comfort.
I like quoting Thoreau: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” But I like it less when I start recognizing myself in the quote. It all evens out, they say. The good times replace the bad and vice versa. And on and on from the cradle to the grave. Seasons. Peaks and valleys. I still worry. I worry more when the times are good since I know they won’t last.
I should read your essays more often, as soon as they come out.
Great read.
The small details make this hit hardest, the homemade focaccia, the crickets, and a cigarette that somehow led to a marriage. There’s something beautiful about realizing that an ordinary life can be extraordinary while we’re busy worrying about what comes next.