The older I grow, the more grateful I become to live in a place that embraces all four seasons with equal conviction.
Summer arrives full of confidence. It beckons us outdoors to linger a little longer beneath wide blue skies, to gather tomatoes still warm from the vine, to breathe deeply of basil and sun-warmed earth. Everywhere there is abundance. Flowers spill over their borders, vegetables stretch toward harvest, and orchards quietly begin to bend beneath the weight of their fruit. It is difficult not to be captivated by such extravagant generosity.
I am always a little reluctant to watch summer fade. Yet autumn never asks permission before it begins its work.
Over the past several days, I have found myself returning again and again to the white hydrangeas growing beside our house. Their broad green leaves have slowly begun to curl and turn downward around their woody stems, as though bowing in quiet acceptance. The once-brilliant blossoms are softening into shades of parchment and bronze.
Nothing about the process appears hurried or reluctant. The hydrangea does not cling to the season that is ending. It simply prepares itself for the one that is coming.
Creation has been doing this from the beginning. Every living thing seems to know when it is time to flourish, when it is time to rest, and when it is time to release what can no longer be carried into the next season.
People, perhaps, struggle with this more than any other part of creation.
How often do we hold tightly to relationships, ambitions, routines, or even versions of ourselves that have quietly reached their natural conclusion? Not because they continue to bear fruit, but because we fear what might replace them.
I know I have.
The older I become, the more I find myself wanting to live as the garden lives—with fewer unnecessary burdens and greater attentiveness to what is unfolding right in front of me. The land has become one of my most faithful teachers. It reminds me that life is not meant to be hurried, only faithfully tended. That today’s work is enough for today. That gratitude is cultivated in the present, not in yesterday’s regrets or tomorrow’s uncertainties.
The hydrangea asks for nothing more than to follow the rhythm woven into its very design.
Perhaps wisdom is learning to do the same. To release what has finished its work. To trust that making room is not the same as losing.
And to believe that every graceful letting go is also an invitation for something new to take root.
