But I always feel sad when, clearly, Summer is fading. (Not to mention feelings of almost total depression each year when November seems to have only bare trees, too short days, dark and grey and rain, to show for itself. And it’s not yet Christmas.)

 

Summer passing means the floral world’s best has come and gone. The lilies that blossomed wondrously: their green stems are now brown sticks poking up and through the plant's still valiant verdure. The roses’ thorns remain, their bright petals gone.

 

All that Spring green! But now the trees too have settled into the same virescence of green instead of the early multi-variegated hue of the respective leaves of these sentinels of Spring.

 

The humidity is toned down, the air becomes drier, cooler as Fall beckons.

 

Vacation time now over, students know that school's around the corner, just after Labour Day - bringing it’s own excitement and apprehension - and maybe dread. I don’t go to school anymore, though I hope to be a life-long learner. But the feelings re: school coming remain.  — Time to get back into the challenge of regimen, the routine. To meet new friends and get new books and erasers and pencils and straight pens. Do they still do that? (I think I’m dating myself a bit here.)

 

Summer passing. And with the swiftness of the churning push-pull of seasons, I'm reminded —  as the old adage had it — 'We are too soon old and too late smart.’ Wisdom comes from experience, and each experience is - well, experienced: one. at. a. time. One.by.one… over a life-time. As someone has said, 'Life must be lived forward. But it is only understood as one looks back.'

 

And so, the harvest days of Autumn beckon but they too will quickly pass. All our days are a blur. Each year we’re given accelerates and leaves far too soon. Living them, daily, after-awhile perhaps, we scarcely notice. Perhaps they move along more slowly when we're younger because there's so much that's new, novel; so much to learn, see and do. But as we age, we get into routine and regularity (well mostly), and pretty soon the only thing marking our time is garbage day and the morning we must replace the now-gone pills in that little plastic day-by-day-marked box-thingy.

 

Babes and youth, teens and early adulthood. Middle age … and here-comes-retirement. And again with promise of lots more years of freedom... and travel... and not-having-to-work-anymore that we worked for, envisioned, fantasized about. 

 

And this may be true for some of us; hopefully most of us. But we may also find ourselves in long waits in doctors offices and emergency wards. We may need treatments and procedures with unfamiliar names. We share health help information we've found with others of the same age, and they're actually interested. And then also, we may receive news we thought we’d never get - or at least not yet, about what's likely to happen next - yes, to our own good selves. 

 

It all passes. It all goes away in the end. Spring’s promise and Summer’s best, Autumn’s harvest, despite its beauty — and then the cold wind of Winter’s adversity and challenge. It will all come. It'll all happen - passages, passing, then gone.

 

I have loved all of the Seasons as they come and go.  I love a friend of many years who has Alzheimers... summer passing...

 

Yet there’s promise of beyond. They say there’s a fifth Season. 

 

Not here - yet.  It’s in 'a land that is fairer than day; and by faith we can see it afar…'

 

(Some of you will know the promise as did my friend earlier: the hope and comfort of the next lines. Anyone could Google them.)

 

Summer's passing. And that's OK with me.