Seasons

It was about the third week of August ….

the first time I noticed the faint smell of the change of the seasons.

It’s always my nose which is the first to detect those subtle changes.

 Over the next few weeks, the change would become more noticeable.

 It’s not that one season or one month smells stronger than another – it’s simply that my nose has become attuned over the years to the faint changes that mark the passing of time which is announced by the change of the seasons.

 I was about seven years old when it became my job to walk my mother’s dogs at the weekend.

 Being the only child of a single working mother came with its advantages and with its responsibilities – especially with a mum whose love and devotion to her dogs remains unsurpassed even to this day.

 As she had to work, taking the dogs for a walk on Saturdays and Sundays fell to me.

 This was the late sixties, when the world was a very different place and there would be no eyebrows raised at the site of a seven-year-old wandering alone, accompanied only by a couple of dogs, in our local woods.

 This was a responsibility which continued through my teenage years and into adulthood, the only difference being when I was married the dogs included not only my mum’s but also the growing number of hounds that were being accumulated by my then wife and I.

 And so it was, over many years, that my nose became accustomed to telling the difference in the smell between the beginning of July and the middle of July, between the middle of March and the beginning of April and so on.

 Along with the development of this sensitivity, also came a deep appreciation for the gifts that Nature bestows upon us, no matter what the time of year.

 Sure, in one sense, a warm evening in June may be more attractive than freezing drizzle in February – but if you have the wherewithal to step out, whatever the weather, and to STOP – and I do mean really STOP, in the blink of an eye, nature reveals her wonders which are all around, all of the time.

 Along with this joyous gift, also comes a deeper understanding of the natural way of things.

 Each year, not long after the New Year, new shoots start to appear – snow drops, followed by crocuses followed by the early flowering rhododendrons.

 Through April and May, the trees once again cover themselves with leaves in glorious shades of green, soaking up the sun – and the rain.

 Streams which at some times of the year may be parched and dry, gush with effervescent joy following a day or five of April showers.

 The warmth and vibrant colours of summer – roses and all manner of plants, the woods and forests humming with the sounds of insects and birds.

 And then the first hint that summer is passing, the shortening of the days which seems to start gradually and then gathers speed as September passes into October.

 Leaves turn a variety of magical colours.

 Paths which have been dusty dry start to feel softer under foot as the storms of October strike.

 And then the leaves fall, and daylight shortens as winter approaches once more.

 The cycle of birth, life and death is played out before our eyes year after year.

 This is the way of things, not only on our planet, but also for stars and even galaxies - even the entire universe which one day in trillions if years, will vanish into a black hole , only to be born again in the next big bang.

 The only difference is timescales.

 So, to witness this first hand, week after week bestows a sense of perspective and a deep appreciation for the unfathomable intelligence which has arranged everything with such delightful perfection.

 One can see with absolute clarity, as Ram Dass would say, that death is not an error, it is not a mistake or a failure – it is simply part of the process, part of the natural way of things.

 This in turn leads one to an appreciation of the fact that it is not the quantity of a life which counts, but the quality of one’s days which is of paramount importance.

 In a recent conversation with a friend, our conversation wound its way to what would we do if it was our last day?

 For practical reasons this would just have to be our last day – if the world itself was ending one expects it may be a tad chaotic thus preventing individual preferences .

 But if it was my last day, how would I choose to spend it?

 I knew without having to pause.

 I would put the lead on my faithful Airedale Rita, and we would head out to do our usual Saturday Walk – through woods and parks, we would pause on the bridge over the stream and listen to the water cascade, we would take a moment to delight in the magnificence of the trees, we would listen to the shrieks of joy of the children playing.

 And we would stop and while Rita becomes engrossed in whatever smell takes her fancy, and I would stare in wide wonder at the glory of single leaf.

 I would smell the scent of the seasons.

 And know that all is as it should be.

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