Ecclesiastes was on to something. While an exuberant ephemerality is at the heart of the ancient book, its boiled-down truth is one we hum in our heads for good reason: for everything there is a season, a time for every matter under heaven.
And, if pressed to point to proof of the sheer genius at work in the cogs and the gears of creation, the faithful wheeling of the year would be my number one exhibit: the undulations of earth’s turning, the rhythms of shadow and light, heat and cold, the enlivening and the dying and all the tug and the pull and the paradox in between, that brings us the carousel of ever-shifting season.
More than anything it teaches me trust, with a chaser of awe.
