Seasons are great. I loathe the cold, but even so, one can’t deny the cathartic beauty of a crisp, clear fall day. It burns your lungs, but in such a good way.
And then the crunch of snow will soon come underfoot, and with it, the fondness of home, and pine scents, and a robust fire—or even just the thought of the crackling flame as a warm drink is caressed in hand and reflections stir.
Spring will melt away the snow, the birds will return, and the sun will shine between spurts of cleansing rain, bringing the trees and the very earth back to vibrant livelihood.
Then summer again, with its chip-chirping bugs and long, warm nights out under the tapestry of the sky.
Seasons are great. They invoke certain emotions and memories, and they at all times drive us to something beyond. Nature whispers out to us, teaching us deeper truths. Or, as it is put in Job 12:7-8:
But ask the animals, and they will teach you,
Or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you;
Or speak to the earth, and it will teach you,
Or let the fish in the sea inform you.
And autumn is upon us—at least where I live. The leaves—their reds and browns and yellows—have descended upon us like big, brittle snowflakes, and the air dances coolly across the skin, with that first-time frigidity, the warning of winter.
And it is in these moments, wherein a brisk morning walk can reacquaint the soul with the God of the seasons. Perhaps you can rise early some morning or take a mid-morning respite from work, and saunter off into a nearby wood to walk, and, more than anything else, to listen as the leaves and trees and scampering squirrels quietly chant the rhythmic whisper of the Creator to your soul. Just as a new season is a symbol of an ongoing renewal, may a walk in this brisk new season that is upon us spur a renewal deep within you.