Seasonality

It's beginning. Each year it kind of sneaks up on me, the gradual temperature adjustments from summer to fall. I really start to notice it in the changing of the plant life on my daily runs through the woods. A few curled leaves, browning on the edges. The forest floor newly layered with extra pine needles. Thinning between the branches with reduced foliage. A sharpness in the air as I run, a need to add just a little bit of warmer clothing. All these are signs of change from one time period to another.

I like when things change. If every day, every week, every month was exactly the same, things would get rather dull. Funnily enough, while I like the change, some things I intentionally keep the same, such as eating nearly the same smoothie for breakfast over the last three years (although I recently started adding oats, a good choice). It may be that in keeping some things the same (what I wear and eat), I can embrace what I can't control.

Yes, it requires adjusting, finding new norms, working in new schedules, but a life that drifts and shifts with the times is one that creates opportunity for delight and unexpected whimsy.

Right now we're in a season of change. It's the first few weeks of school; we have one kid wrapping up middle school and another getting into division and multiplication. It's the season of sports activities, cooling weather, and new house projects for the upcoming winter.

As someone who both likes chaos and at odd times wants things to be predictable, moving through these shifts can cause some adjusting. But the older I get, the more I welcome it.

Thinking back to some of the biggest changes in my life—marriage, children, moving to Idaho—each had profound and impactful effects on the last few decades.

You can't, of course, expect the new to always be good. Sometimes it's not; sometimes you're hit by a gale-force wind that wants to knock you down and keep you there. But many times, serendipitously it seems, the newness beckons toward unexpected joy.

I remember the first year of our son's life, watching him through the eyes of new parents. My wife and I were exhausted, trying to figure this thing out. We were unsure if we were doing the right things, regularly operating with little sleep, and feeling weighed down by all the things that needed doing. Then, on a random Tuesday afternoon, we'd be sitting on the couch, catching our breath, only to see the unexpected happen.

Our son, crawling around and seeing everything through fresh eyes, would find something interesting and start to play with it, roll around, make toys out of cardboard boxes, reject the fancier animal figurines we'd bought, and all around just make the most of life.

We knew we'd be tired, we knew raising a kid was a lot of responsibility, but the thing that surprised me was how hilarious this kid could be.

Sometimes he was just straight-up funny, and my wife and I would just sit and laugh and enjoy being with him.

It's easy to close ourselves off to the unexpected, to shield against change. It's a protective instinct: make sure nothing bad happens. But if we do that too much, we also limit the opportunity for good, for chaos, for joy.

So, I'm learning to embrace seasonality, to appreciate when things aren't the same.

That doesn't mean it's always easy; sometimes I get stressed out. But I'm finding ways to cope with it. That could mean going on long runs, making sure I catch extra sleep, or finding ways to pull away from all the electronics that constantly surround me.

As I think ahead to next year, with one kid heading into high school and me going into my forties, I see a world that I can't predict, but also one that offers unexpectedness in ways that are good.

Maybe it's reading a new book, spending time with a friend at a coffee shop, going to a party that I didn't plan on, or just spending time with loved ones doing something new or something old in new ways.

This is part of what it means to live, to be part of life. It's not all, of course; there's so much more.

But I don't want a life that is laid out and preordained. I can't imagine ever being bored; there's too much to do, to see, to experience.