The circular nature of things

I never cease to be amazed at the cyclical nature of life. Between birth and the inevitable but largely-feared thing we call death, our lives move in circles much the way our earth moves around the sun to give us the seasons by which we mark off spent years. It’s a good thing we move in circles, I say. This way when we find a place that is special or a friend who is dear, we can return for another look or share another day. Just think how odd it would be to always move straight ahead, never being able to make a go-round, never being able to get one more taste of something surprising and sweet. I’m not interested in a route through life that never brings me back again or gives me another shot at something I’m good or bad at.

One month ago I wrote this post about the closing of February, the end of what was, by all accounts here at our farm, a hard winter. I brought my camera to document my morning walk to the wood pile and the photos I brought inside showed a stark but beautiful landscape encrusted in ice. One month later, the scene has been redrawn in gold and green and blue. Spring has arrived both on the calendar and on the farm. Spring has done more than arrived. It has returned! And isn’t that a better way to look at it?

One month ago I looked across the expanse of frozen water and couldn’t discern the far edge of the lake. Throughout today, though, I have watched the ice retreat from one edge of the lake to the other. Tonight, I enjoyed my first sunset over glistening waves, my first sunset, that is, of this year. I looked forward to it all weekend as I watched the darkening ice break at the edges then in parts of the lake’s center. Saturday, I watched Canada geese land on the surface, break through and then struggle to get airborne as the surface gave way beneath their weight. I knew today was going to be ice out day. I’d seen it happen before. Ice out is just one notch on the life cycle that envelops me here. It’s a day worth celebrating as much as — if not more than — those days that commemorate presidents or statesmen or lovers.

I look forward to dozens more ice out days and sunsets over glistening waves as the seasons continue to cycle. I will watch migrating birds fly north and then south and then north again. My trees, now spattered with tiny buds will soon burst with blossoms and then leaves and, eventually color. And then they will stand naked against the frozen sky. My heart, watching our seasons cycle past, will fill with hope, and then joy, and then dread, and then hope once again.

I can even note the change in the stacks of wood. The split and dried wood is mostly gone, burnt to keep our fuel costs low and my fingers warm. Next year’s fuel is piled not so neatly yet in place to absorb the wind and heat that will give us an autumn chore of splitting and stacking. Autumn. Its arrival is as inevitable as the Canada goose taking a break from migration on my shore. I will not lament it because it’s part of the cycle.

One month ago, winter held our farm, and me, in a firm and icy grip. I’m glad life moves in circles. Spring is here now. I don't look for my boots anymore. Tonight’s walk to the shore was made in my slippers!