As the warm, salty air picks up a familiar chill, I observe the frost on the trees and the glistening dewdrops on spiderwebs with a bittersweet sadness.
Summer shifts into a subtle fall, not unlike years past. The trees turn to gilded shades of maroon and ochre, but all too soon, the precious leaves fall and wilt into a calm shade of oak.
They collect dust and crinkle on the barren ground, as snow provides a layer of unfriendly embrace.
It’s changing again. The seasons, the trees, the river. Year after year, it perseveres, but it changes all the same. Within this shift, my seasonal moods become rampant once more, from the excitement of Christmas coming to the late, snowy nights spent gazing at the stars.
Although I tend to complain about the biting wind chill that November and December bring, I know that each gust of wind is only a reminder of clarity and the wonder of truth. I’m grounded in the brisk breath I inhale every time I step outside and in the slow exhale of visible steam that follows. However, the harsh extreme of winter scares me.
I find it interesting, the way that summer and winter are both opposites and both different parts of who I am. These two extremes reflect each other in both the best and worst ways, from the sweltering heat of the midday sun rays to the icy cold that engulfs the earth in an iridescent glow.
In both of these seasons, I find myself cursing the weather for being so unbearable. The seasons dictate nearly every choice I make, from the outfits I messily coordinate when running out the door to the beverage I brew when I return from a late-night shift. They proudly change my mind again and again, until I know only the cyclical nature of my upbringing.
From the icy, slippery sidewalks to the twinkle of my bike bell in the summer, I find solace and sadness in each.
I isolate myself the most in these wretched times. Instead of swimming in the lake or making snow angels in my backyard, I convince myself that the temperatures are too extreme, just too much to possibly be enjoyable. It is in these conditions that I become the most hated parts of who I am.
I’ve never known myself to be loud. I think this is why I think of myself as an in-between-season person, like spring or fall. As the true Pisces I am, I blossom in calm, kind conditions, reminiscent of the gentle weather March through May offers.
In spring, I feel rejuvenated. As the bitter frost melts and the harsh sting of the midwestern winds fades, I allow myself to recuperate and rejoice in the welcoming of moderate temperatures, spring showers, and the season to be born anew.
Until then, I will welcome the chilly air and the snow on my fingers as much as I can, and I will relish the time in which I can discover yet another facet of who I can be.
