I’m not sure how the conversation started, but somehow the Kaufholz family began chatting about our favorite seasons. Lucy chimed in first with “summer!” because summer means swimming pools and hanging out with friends. Very on brand. Brianne said spring, which is in my opinion, perfect for her because spring is beautiful, positive, and full of life. Eve said fall because of the goodies like pumpkin muffins–and Eve loves herself a goodie.
Important note: Nothing is really even pumpkin flavored because pumpkin tastes like a mealy old squash. What we really mean is we like the combination of sugar, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice, and cloves–which we now call pumpkin.
Anyhow, I finally went and said that my favorite season is winter. Which, of course, is because I’m a sad little boy who likes to hunker into a warm set of dark feelings. But it was then the family realized that all four of us picked different seasons, which led Brianne (who again is positive and full of life) to declare that each one of us would get to plan fun things for the first day of “our season.” She’s always finding reasons to celebrate, and we’re better for it.
On the first day of fall, per Eve’s guidance, the house was decorated in orangy-brown-Halloween things and Eve made apple cookies that I finished without asking anyone else if they wanted one. Zero shame. They were worth it.
For most of my life, I’ve been a Floridian and, moreover, a Central Floridian meaning the seasons are basically summer and summer+. I’m not ripping on Florida’s climate as many tend to do. I love the warm evenings of July and riding bikes to the park on Christmas Day. But, the one thing I never loved was the same-ness of it all. When July and December are only separated by a sweatshirt that you have to take off by noon, there are no seasons.
But I think we need seasons, or at least I do.
On the aforementioned first day of Eve’s fall in Virginia, the fig tree dropped piles of big, crunchy leaves right on cue. Around the corner of our house, the dogwood tree that brought us so much joy with its white pedals in April revealed its first orange leaves. And the yard that I was cutting every 6 days during the summer now looked just as it did when I mowed two weeks earlier. In short, the earth was slowing down, changing, and preparing. And as you may have guessed, this is where our metaphor begins.
Using the word “season” has become synonymous with not saying a lot of other things. It’s a convenient word that I’ve used often that acts as a quick substitute for “an unknown period of time.” Yet, it has also become a sort of short hand for softening the reality of what may be happening. It’s not a “season of health issues,” it’s a total shit storm of fear and exhaustion as your kid battles cancer–again. It’s not a “season of reflection,” it’s white-knuckling while you go to counseling and try to avoid hurting people more. It’s not a “season of change,” it’s falling off a cliff, not sure where the bottom is.
